


Desolate

by Vague_Shadows



Series: Desolate [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Pack aftermath, Angst, Hurt!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Polyamory, Protective!Derek, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Self-Mutilation, Slow build to Stiles/Isaac/Derek, Slow build to Stisaac, So much angst, amnesia!stiles, but still lots of angst, dub-con, protective!Isaac, references to past sexual trauma, seriously so much angst, there's some fluff too now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 27
Words: 130,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner.  The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible and cover his most vulnerable areas.  It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he’s wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in over four months ago.  The acrid stench clinging to him tells such a vivid story of the atrocities he must have endured while he’s been missing that Derek thinks he might be sick.   </p><p>“Stiles?” he asks in disbelief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it!

The alphas are _finally_ gone, killed or driven out by the combined efforts of werewolves and hunters.  Derek was about to crash into his first decent night’s sleep in _months_ when Deaton called and absolutely insisted Derek come to the office. _Right fucking now_. Because some matter of near life-and-death importance has come up. 

Needless to say, Derek’s not in a great mood when he storms into the clinic. 

“Okay, Deaton. I’m here.  What the hell is so important that you call me at three in the morning the one fucking night I could finally—”

Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner.  The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible and cover his most vulnerable areas.  It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he’s wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in over four months ago.  The acrid stench clinging to him tells such a vivid story of the atrocities he must have endured while he’s been missing that Derek thinks he might be sick.   

“Stiles?” he asks in disbelief.

There’s no response, but Deaton nods a confirmation.

“The last alphas must have left him behind when they fled.  I found him when I got back here after tending to your pack.  ”

"What the hell happened to him?”

“You know as well as I do that they were keeping some betas in the pack as lackeys and pawns. It seems Stiles fell somewhere in that category.”

“Will he be okay?”

“It’s hard to say.  Physically he seems to be more or less fine, but mentally…” Deaton lets the sentence trail off as he studies Stiles worriedly.  “I fear they’ve been toying with his memory all this time.  He doesn’t seem to know who he is or who we are.”

“Is that something we can fix?”

"Perhaps.”

"How?”

“You’re an alpha. If you work at your control, you _may_ be able to give memories of his old life.  If you give him enough, it could spark a reversal of the amnesia.”

“How does that work if the memories have been taken?”

“They’re not literally taken, just blocked.  It’s part of the alpha’s power over memories and perceptions of reality.  Taking and giving memories is simply a milder version of what Peter did to Lydia.”

“You expect me to fix this?”

“I expect you to try. I know it seems impossible, but you can’t just leave him like this. At the very least he needs a pack so he doesn’t fall to omega. The Hale Pack is the only pack for miles. You need to take him in.”

“Hale Pack?” Stiles says quietly, turning his face just slightly toward them.

“Yes,” Deaton replies.  “Does that mean something to you, Stiles?”

“Are you Alpha Hale?” he asks Derek, voice trembling.

“Yes,” Derek replies, recoiling inwardly at hearing the formal title from the familiar voice.

“I have a message for you, Alpha.”

“What message?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies apologetically, eyes still avoiding Derek’s, “but I don’t think it’s healed yet.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

Stiles moves slowly, as if he expects to be attacked at every motion.  He brings his shirt up over his head and turns his back toward Derek and Deaton.  Etched in the pale skin are slowly healing wounds from an alpha’s claw, forming the sick message they’ve instructed Stiles to blindly deliver.

_To the Hale Pack with best regards. Enjoy him as much as we did._

Below the words is the Alpha Pack’s symbol that serves as a signature leaving no doubt which monsters were behind the broken boy who sits before Derek.  He barely makes it out the back door before he’s violently ill, bracing himself against the rough brick.  He hears Deaton walk out behind him but doesn’t turn.

“How the fuck am I supposed to fix this?” Derek asks dejectedly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You owe it to him to try. You’re his best bet.”

“Then God help him,” Derek mutters wearily. He takes a deep breath, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and prepares to go back inside.

             

            


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to those of you who encouraged me to keep posting this! I was blown away!! 
> 
> I hope you find the rest as interesting as you hoped!!

By the time Derek goes back in, Stiles has donned his shirt once more.  He’s still against the far wall. Instead of his previous cower, he’s now on his knees, hunched in submission, facing Derek. Everything about the position is so _not_ Stiles that he can’t process it. This whole situation is so fucked. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he didn’t even know where to start.  Stiles breaks the silence for him.

“Please, Alpha,” Stiles says quietly. “I didn’t think the message would be offensive. I didn’t know. I never would have—”

“Stop,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles’ words cease immediately as his head dips even lower. “You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Thank you, Alpha.”

“What do you remember?”

 “I don’t—I don’t understand, Alpha.”

“Before the Alpha Pack,” Derek clarifies.  “How much do you remember?”

"Before the Alpha Pack? There was nothing before the Alpha Pack. I can’t—I’m sorry, Alpha, I—”

“It’s okay,” Derek assures him, needing this broken apologizing to stop before he’s sick again.  “I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

“I don’t know, Alpha,” Stiles admits woefully.  “They said they were leaving. They said I was better suited for another pack, so they brought me here and told me to find Alpha Hale to deliver the message.  I don’t understand what I did, but I promise I’m a fast learner, Alpha. If you teach me what to do, I can be a good part of your pack.  I swear to you I can do whatever it takes—whatever you need. I can be a good beta. I can, Alpha, if you’ll let—”

“Stop,” Derek says again, fighting at the bile rising in the back of his throat.

He stares sadly at the pitiful, panicked teenager who’s holding back tears as he pleads for a place in the Hale Pack.  He’s not relieved to be set free of the alphas; he just feels _abandoned._

_Well then, I guess I do know where to start._

_"_ You want to be part of the Hale Pack?” Derek asks.

“Yes, Alpha!” Stiles replies eagerly; he turns his head to the side, exposing his throat.  “I can be a good beta. I can serve the Hale Pack. _Please_.”

“I know you can be a good beta,” Derek tells him wearily.  “You’re more than welcome in the pack, Stiles. We want you to be with us.”

“Thank you, Alpha. Thank you. I’ll earn my place; I promise. Whatever you—”

“First things first,” Derek interjects, quelling the sickening gush of gratitude.  “Tonight we’ll get you cleaned up, and then get some rest.  We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

 

*****************************************************************

 

It’s a long morning of monologues in the back office of the vet clinic as Derek tries to summarize Stiles’ life to him—what he knows of it anyway.  It’s clear that, while Stiles understands the concepts of what Derek tells him, he has absolutely no memory of his life before the alphas took him.  He knows what a father is; he just doesn’t think he has one.  He doesn’t understand why he would have hesitated to join Derek’s pack or chosen a makeshift human pack instead.  He can’t figure out the motivations behind any of his actions from before; he just continues to assure Derek he can be better now.

The feeling of guilt churning in Derek’s gut only intensifies as the conversation goes on. How many times has he wished Stiles would stop arguing and just listen to him? How many times did he seethe in anger that Stiles wouldn’t help convince Scott to join the pack? How many times did he think the scrawny human should learn some respect? Now it seems he’s been granted those wishes, and the truth is that the person sitting before him isn’t Stiles anymore because of it.

 “I know it’s a lot to absorb,” Derek tells him, “and the others have been told about your memory loss. They’ll help you while I try to figure out how to reverse the amnesia.  We won’t stop trying until you’re better, okay?”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles answers immediately, “but I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure there are more important things you need to—”

“No, Stiles,” Derek counters. “This is the number one priority now that the Alpha Pack is gone.  We were looking for you for months. It’s what got the pack together in the first place. We’re not going to let them do this to you. You’re going to get your memories back.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles agrees meekly.

“I told you that you don’t have to call me that,” Derek reminds him.

“But you’re an Alpha,” Stiles replies, “I don’t understand what else I would—”

“Just call me Derek.”

“Yes, Alph—Derek.  Yes, Derek, of course.”

“Scott is going to come and get you to take you home.  He can explain more to you—tell some stories that may help with your memories. Your dad knows the situation. He knows you’ve been turned.  You don’t have to worry about telling him that, just focus on not shifting; don’t hurt him.”

“I won’t, Derek.”

“I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be by later to see how you’re doing and talk through how we’ll handle things until your memories come back.”

“Yes, Derek.”

He runs a hand down his tired face.  Maybe the title Stiles gives him is different, but the tone is the same.  He doesn’t know how to explain what Stiles is doing wrong. _Technically_ Stiles isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s doing what any beta is supposed to do, showing respect, but Stiles has respect out of fear that’s been ingrained in him as he endured hell for four months.  That’s not the respect Derek ever wants as an Alpha.

 

*********************************************************************

 

He begins to answer to the name Stiles, as the Alpha told him to.  He goes with the beta called Scott, as the Alpha told him to.  He dons the hat and sunglasses the beta provides and rides quietly in the backseat hidden under a blanket so he won’t be seen, as the Alpha told him to.  He goes into the house with Scott, as the Alpha told him to.  He greets the man the Alpha says is his father but who doesn’t smell like pack, and he doesn’t shift or hurt him, as the Alpha told him to. 

They’re careful with him, and he isn’t sure why.  They seem to be waiting for something, some sign from him, but he isn’t sure what.  He takes the water the human gives him and sits on the sofa with Scott, still trying to figure out _why_ the Alpha would want him to come here instead of going to the pack if he’s really going to be allowed to stay.

As Scott speaks, telling stories Stiles can’t remember of time they supposedly shared before the alphas took him, he begins to understand.  He wasted time on pranks. He broke rules. He put others in danger. He supported a beta’s decision to deny his alpha—more than once—and fought against the Alpha’s wishes.  He created trouble for the Alpha by telling lies to the police. He inhibited the Alpha’s ability to deal with the threat of the kanima; he allowed himself to be captured by hunters; he can’t even count all the moments of disrespect and insubordination. The list of infractions grows longer and longer as Scott continues to talk. He wants to beg the other beta to stop; there’s too much to be forgiven. Instead he bites his tongue and carefully catalogs the transgressions to ensure none are ever repeated.

“Maybe that’s enough for now,” Scott says eventually.  “You don’t look so good, dude.”

“There’s more?” he asks dismally.

“Well, yeah. There’s, like, your whole life.”   When he doesn’t reply Scott adds, “But, hey, hopefully Derek figures this memory thing out and you’ll remember for yourself.”

“I don’t need the memories to understand the point.” 

“Well, yeah, but if you get the memories back you can get back to being your old self again.”

“I will _never_ go back to being that way!” he insists, rising to his feet. “I’m a _good_ beta. I know how to behave in a pack now. I’m not wasting months of training to—”

“ _Training_?! Stiles, that wasn’t training! That was fucking torture; you have to know that.”

“I know that I’m glad they got me first because otherwise there’s no way in hell the Alpha would have let me in his pack if I really did all the things you say.  You should be grateful the Alpha ever took you.”

“What the fuck, man? That is some seriously messed up logic you’ve got going on.  You—”

“There is nothing wrong with my logic.”

“Stiles—come on, this isn’t you. Did you hear _anything_ I said? You’re not supposed to roll over and take it.  You’re—you’re supposed to be _you._ Everyone liked you the way you were—the way _we_ were—all witty and hyper and fun and _you_. There was nothing wrong with it.”

“If you believe that, then maybe you should be the one reexamining your memories.  Your loyalty lies with an alpha, and it always should.  Derek is your alpha now; he’s taken you in and kept you from becoming Omega.  Be grateful; don’t forget your place,” he warns.  “Your job is to serve your alpha and your pack, not to satisfy some rebellious teenage—”

“Scott, I think maybe he’s had enough for today,” the human suggests.

“Maybe you’re right,” Scott agrees.  “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Derek too. He’ll explain the whole pack thing better.”

He rises to leave, and Stiles follows.

“No, you’re staying here,” he tells Stiles.

“What?”

“Derek said it’s best for you to be at home.  Familiar stuff from before, ya know? To trigger some memories maybe?”

“Stay here?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirms.  His previous frustration seems to be melting away as he adds, “It’ll be okay, Stiles. I swear. Everything’s going to be okay.”

When Scott balls his first and moves to hit him, Stiles blocks the pathetic attempt at a blow and steps back, teeth bared and a growl in his throat, though he doesn’t shift completely.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Scott says quickly. “I—we used to do the whole bro-shoulder-punch thing, and I—I was trying to make you feel better, but clearly I fail at life.”

Stiles doesn’t reply because he didn’t even understand half of that sentence. 

“I’ll see you later, dude.”

Stiles watches him go while keeping an eye on the human—Dad he’s supposed to call him—out of the corner of his eye.  Derek instructed him not to hurt the human, but he can still be ready for a defense if needed. 

The mantra repeated so many times replays in his mind: _Never trust anything outside the pack. Never interact with anything outside the pack. Nothing matters but the pack. You understand? Your place is here. Serving the pack in whatever way is required of you._

It’s taking all his control to keep his panic in check now that Scott is gone.  There’s nothing here to suggest pack, only this human who smells vaguely familiar—probably because they share DNA—but not anything truly pack.  He moves slowly to sit on the sofa, breathing deeply as he tries to control his heart rate.

_The Alpha will come. He won’t leave you here. This is just to allow you to think of what you’ve done and should never fall back to.  This is a lesson—a reminder from the Alpha of what it would be like to be without pack—be grateful that he takes time to teach you.  You told him you could learn so learn from your time as you wait._

_The Alpha will come. He won’t leave you here. You’re pack. You aren’t alone. Derek will come._

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It takes longer than Derek expected to air out the apartment.  They’ve been jumping between hideouts so often he hasn’t been back here for more than a few hours at a time for nearly a year.  Now there’s not much to hide from—not even the Argents since Chris and Allison are the only ones left. It’s a relief, but it still feels weird to make his bed and unpack his clothes.  It’s strange to bring in groceries and store them neatly in the fridge, mentally planning the meals for the week instead of figuring out how to fit in meals on the run.  

Down the hall he can hear Peter settling into the second bedroom.    He’d wondered if Peter would leave once things were settled with the alphas, but it seems his uncle has every intention to stay.  He’s oddly content to serve as Second and coast along as Derek takes the lead; he claims he enjoys sitting back and watching the shit storm unfold as Derek deals with his pack of teenagers.  Derek can’t help wondering if Peter’s really just waiting for the moment when the pack is stable and Derek’s not looking; Peter claims he doesn’t want to be an alpha again because it’s too much for him to control, but Derek knows this kind of power is hard to resist.   Peter may make a damn good Second, but Derek still knows better than to trust him completely, which is why he’s kind of glad Peter decided to move in; hopefully Derek can keep an eye on him.

It’s nearly nine o’clock by the time Derek heads for the Stilinski house. Scott called earlier to say Stiles wasn’t doing so well.  Apparently Stiles seems to think he shouldn't be the same Stiles he was before the alphas; he doesn't think they want him to be his old self again.  Derek has no idea how to convey how wrong that way of thinking is.  He’ll try once he gets there. Maybe time with his father helped calm Stiles a bit.

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Hours pass and still no one comes for him. He sits, meditating dutifully on all the stories Scott shared and all the things he can do to show Derek that the previous, unworthy Stiles is gone. He can prove to them all that he can be an asset to the pack. He knows his place; he knows how to be useful. He won’t ever revert to that smartass little wretch he was before. He knows better now, and he’ll make sure Derek knows that.

 _If_ Derek ever comes.

_He will come. He will. He’s not leaving you here._

_Not that you could do anything about it if he did.  He’s your alpha; he can keep you here as long as he wants. He doesn’t have to come back.  Could you blame him if he changed his mind about you?_

_No, he’ll come. He said he would come. He told me to talk to Scott, see this Dad, and then Derek said he would come._

_Please, come, please, please, please, please come._

No matter how hard he tries to fight it, the terror still seeps in.  He can feel himself begin to tremble, and, when he realizes he can’t calm himself enough to stop, the panic _really_ take hold.  He can’t shift. Derek told him not to shift and not to hurt the human.  He can’t disobey; he won’t.  He takes the letter opener from the coffee table in front of him and drives it deep in his thigh. The searing pain blessedly clears his head and brings him back from the edge of the shift.

But he can feel it building back again almost immediately.

_Oh God, please come. Please come soon. Please. Please. Come soon._

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek can smell the blood once he steps out of his car; panic clenches in his chest as he sprints up the front steps and bursts in the door.  Stiles is in his beta form, covered in blood, and flings himself immediately at Derek’s feet.

“I’m trying to control it, Alpha, please,” he sobs desperately. “Help me; I can’t. The pain isn’t working. I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Alpha. I’m so sorry. I tried, Alpha, I swear I—”

He shifts into beta form and growls, sending Stiles scurrying back.  It has the desired effect, and now the panicked beta is back to human at least.  He approaches slowly as Stiles continues to sob out apologies.

“It’s okay,” Derek soothes. “I’m not going to hurt you, Stiles. It’s okay.  What happened?”

“I couldn’t control the panic--it just—it was too much being here so long—I couldn’t—without something pack—I just panicked.  My pulse jumped and I could feel the shift coming and I tried to control it but the pain didn’t work and that just made it all worse and I tried—God, Alpha, I swear I tried—but I couldn’t keep it from happening.”

Derek sees now the slashes all over Stiles body where he tried to conjure enough pain to control the shift.  There’s so much blood in the carpet he doesn’t want to think how long Stiles must have been trying to inflict enough pain to shift back before Derek returned.

 _Unless some of the blood isn’t his._  

The sheriff’s cruiser and truck are still both parked outside.

“Stiles, where is your dad?”

Stiles points toward the bathroom door.  The sofa, recliner, and coffee table have all been shoved in front of it.  He can hear the sheriff’s muffled voice from behind the door now.

“You told me not to hurt him,” Stiles says by way of explanation. “When I felt it coming, I forced him in there.”

“Good,” Derek says with a relieved sigh. “That’s good, Stiles. You did the right thing.”

Stiles seems to relax just the tiniest bit at the praise. 

“I tried to keep the shift from happening,” Stiles says again, beseeching Derek for mercy he clearly doesn’t _actually_ expect.  “I was weak, Derek. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I can do better. I can learn. I learned today from the stories from Scott. Derek, I understand. I won’t ever be so disrespectful again. I won’t ever hesitate to support the pack or your decisions or—”

“Stop,” Derek orders.

Stiles silences himself with a whimper.

“That’s not what I meant—I was just trying to help you.  Sending you here was supposed to _help_ you.”

_I’m supposed to help you, not put you in a situation where you start mauling yourself in a tizzy of panic.  Jesus fucking Christ._

“It did,” Stiles insists. “It helped. I learned. I know. I understand.  I shouldn’t act like that or I’ll be separate from the pack,” Stiles elaborates, clearly convinced he’s affirming some sick lesson Derek had planned in sending Stiles here.  “I’m better now, Derek. I swear to you. I’m not like that anymore. I won’t ever be like that again.”

_That’s exactly what we’re afraid of, Stiles._

Derek turns, trying to compose himself and figure out what the fuck he can say to make this situation remotely better.  The turn sets Stiles off though, and he’s back at Derek’s feet in an instant.

“No, Alpha, please. Please don’t leave me here! I’ll learn to control the shift better just don’t—”

“Stiles, don’t,” Derek says wearily, crouching to Stiles’ level because he’s honestly not sure that the beta can stand. 

There’s at least one thing he can say right now to ease some of Stiles’ distress. 

“Look at me,” Derek requests.

Stiles lifts his head but doesn’t make eye contact. Derek moves to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and he can see the effort it takes Stiles not to recoil. 

“Look at me,” Derek repeats, and Stiles’ eyes slowly find his.

“I am not going to leave you,” he promises solemnly.  “You are part of this pack now.  You will never be abandoned again.  No matter what.”

“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles replies with a weak smile, eyes dropping again.  “I promise I—”

“I know,” Derek says, cutting off whatever assurance Stiles wants to offer because he can’t take much more of this tonight.  “I know you’re going to be good in the pack. I’m not worried about that; you don’t have to be either. It’s going to be okay.”

_I swear I’m going to figure out how the fuck to make it okay._

    


	3. Chapter 3

Derek wakes as the sun shines in through the blinds, now regretting his decision to only deal with the necessities for Stiles last night.  At the time it had been all he could do to hold it together long enough to clean Stiles up, calm him down, and shove enough of his clothes in a bag that he could crash with Derek a few days.  Dealing with the sheriff while Stiles waited in the car was equally exhausting.  By the time they made it back to the apartment, Derek was too drained to function, so he gave Stiles a blanket and pillow on the couch, assured him again that he was not going to be punished, and promised to explain more in the morning.

_Well, it’s morning. What now?_

He wanders out into the living room to find Stiles sitting in almost the exact same position Derek left him in last night.

“Stiles, did you sleep?” he asks.

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles reports.

“Good,” Derek replies, unsure what else to say.

He goes to the kitchen and is halfway through a bowl of cereal when he catches Stiles watching out the corner of his eye.  Stiles averts his eyes quickly, clearly hoping he wasn’t noticed.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Derek asks.

“No, Derek,” Stiles assures him.

“You hungry?”  

"Yes, Derek.”

“Cereal?” Derek asks, reaching for the box.

“Anything, Derek.”

He studies Stiles then, noting the eagerness in his eyes. 

“When was the last time you ate, Stiles?”

“At the vet’s office before you came to claim me.”

The way he speaks as if he were lost luggage Derek picked up from the airport is insanely unsettling, but there’s a more immediate problem.

“You haven’t eaten since then?”

“No, Derek.”

_Because I didn’t give you anything. Fuck. I didn’t even think about that._

_"_ Shit, Stiles, I should’ve made sure you got something,” Derek mutters, hurrying to pour him a bowl of cereal. “I didn’t mean to make you wait that long. You should’ve told me.”

“I’m sorry, Derek,” he says quietly, head down again.

"No, don’t apologize; it’s not your fault.”

_It’s mine.  How the hell do I overlook that the malnourished, abused teenager I’m in charge of didn’t fucking eat anything. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“Here, come eat this,” Derek instructs, and Stiles hurries to obey.

“Thank you, Derek.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to wait for me to give you food, okay? You can eat anything you want in this kitchen. It’s all fair game.  You can cook yourself something for breakfast if you want more than cereal.  Can you cook?”

"Yes, Derek, I can cook anything,” he replies confidently. “Anything you want.”

It’s the first sign on confidence in twenty-four hours.  Though, the only reason Stiles would still know how to cook is because he did it serving the alphas.  He’s volunteering the information now with the assumption that it’s a skill Derek will find useful.  Derek’s not sure if that counts as actual progress or not, but it’s better than nothing.

“So you like to cook?”

Stiles seems almost confused by the question, but his voice is steady and sure when he replies carefully, “I like to do anything that you want me to, Derek. You’re my Alpha.”

It’s a loaded statement, and it scares Derek to know how sincere Stiles probably is when he says _anything._ It puts a suffocating kind of terror in Derek’s chest because he’s realizing more with every moment that he doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to deal with this submissive version of Stiles while he tries to learn how to give back the memories. 

Stiles finishes his cereal, drinking the milk to the last drop, and then immediately moves to clean his mess.  He hesitates before reaching for Derek’s bowl.

“May I take it, Derek?”

“I’ll get it. You don’t have to clean up for me.”

Stiles nods acknowledgment, confusion on his face again, and moves to wash his bowl in the sink.  He stills slightly when Derek moves to stand beside him at the sink.  Derek doesn’t understand the hopeful look on Stiles face until his face falls the minute Derek starts to pour out his leftover milk.

“Stiles, are you still hungry?”

“You gave me plenty, Derek.”

“That’s not what I asked you.  I said, ‘are you still hungry’?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles answers apologetically.

“I said the whole kitchen, Stiles. Anything you want to eat.”

“I don’t need more, Derek. I’m fine. Thank you, Derek.”

Derek grips to counter too tightly because watching this shell they left of Stiles makes him feel so pissed and guilty and helpless he could kill something—but bursts of anger damn sure aren’t going to help the situation, so all he can do is sit and stew and hope to God he and Deaton can figure out how to get Stiles’ memories back.

_I should have protected him from this in the first place. I should’ve found him sooner.  I should have ripped those alphas limb from fucking limb until we figured out where they were keeping him._

He knows that they did everything they could to find Stiles. Half the time they were just trying to figure out what the hell the alphas’ next move was just so they could stay alive—barely.  It doesn’t make him feel any better though, not really, not when Stiles is still standing next to him completely broken.  In the next instant, Stiles _isn’t_ standing though. He drops to his knees with his head down and whole body tensed.

“Derek, I’m sorry I—”

“Stiles, don’t— _why_ are you apologizing?”

“You’re angry. I—”

 “It’s not you,” Derek assures him tiredly. “I’m not mad at you.  Please get back up.”

Derek reaches to help Stiles to his feet, but he flinches away from the motion.  Derek retreats a few steps to give him space as he rises. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek promises. “I’m mad at the Alpha Pack, okay? That’s all. I’m mad at them for the way they treated you, and I’m pissed at myself for not getting you away from them sooner.  It’s not you at all.  You’re not doing anything wrong.”

 Stiles still looks confused as hell.  It’s clear he doesn’t understand what Derek’s talking about.  He looks _lost_ , and Derek’s going to lose his fucking mind if he doesn’t figure out how to get that look to go away.  _Soon._

“Okay, let’s get you something else to eat, and then I’ve got to go see Deaton,” Derek says, trying to ignore the way Stiles flinches when Derek moves past him toward the pantry.  “Come here,” he requests, and Stiles moves to stand next to him.  “Pick out anything you want, okay? Anything at all—hell, you can have everything in here if you want it, but let’s not get ambitious.”

Stiles seems to be trying to find the trap in the words.  Derek forces himself to wait patiently until Stiles reaches a cautious hand out to grab the peanut butter.  He looks to Derek apprehensively.

“Perfect,” Derek says forcing a smile.  “Protein’s good for you. It’ll fill you up. Take it, and go sit on the couch.  I’ll be there in a second.” 

“Yes, Derek.”

Derek grabs a pack of crackers, a spoon, a glass, and the half gallon of milk still sitting on the counter.  Stiles looks up questioningly as Derek enters the den.

“Here’s the deal,” Derek says.  “You can have or cook anything in the kitchen, like I said, but if you’re not sure or that makes you uncomfortable or whatever, you can stick to the peanut butter.  You can eat it straight out of the jar—the whole damn thing if you want and it doesn’t make you sick.  Here’s crackers. Here’s milk to wash it down.  You can have it all, okay? Eat as much as you want.”

  “Thank you, Derek,” Stiles says, eyes wide. “I—I—thank you.”

The unwarranted amount of gratitude confirms yet again just how little care has been given to Stiles in his time with the alphas. It only intensifies Derek’s need to get the fuck out of here and _do_ something to fix this.

“You’re more than welcome,” Derek replies, “and I mean it about the kitchen.  If you get tired of the peanut butter, you can have anything in there.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“I’ll be back later, okay?”

“Yes, Derek.”

“If you need anything, wake Peter. He won’t be mad.”

_Well he’s not a morning person, but he won’t be legitimately mad. You won’t have the gumption to wake him anyway. It’ll be fine._

Derek hates himself for banking on Stiles timidity but excuses it because he’s leaving him so that he can figure out how to make this all better. 

“You’ll be okay ‘til I get back?”

“Yes, Derek.”

He leaves hoping fervently that Deaton’s got good news. The man’s family’s been doing this whole Adviser thing for years, so he should have _some_ idea where to start. Maybe this won’t be so bad.  Maybe they’ll be lucky.

_Please just this once let us be lucky._

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles sits contentedly filling himself with peanut butter and crackers for a good fifteen minutes after Derek leaves.  He doesn’t know the last time he was this full, and he takes time to sit and relish it.   There’s a voice in the back of his mind insisting this is some sort of trick or test, but he’s replayed Derek’s instructions a thousand times to check.  This is what Derek told him to do. Maybe this illusion of serenity will shatter later, but, for now at least, it’s good. 

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“We have a vacuum,” the Second informs him when he walks into the den to find Stiles carefully collecting the cracker crumbs he got all over the couch.

“It would’ve woken you, Peter.”

“Probably a good call in self-preservation to avoid that,” he concedes.

“Yes, Peter,” Stiles says, noting the advice for future reference.

“I’m guessing Derek’s gone to Deaton to try and learn how to get you back to your usual snarky, pain-in-the-ass self?”

“Derek went to Deaton’s,” Stiles confirms, “but I’m not going to be like that again.”

“No?” Peter asks raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“No,” Stiles replies firmly.

"My need for coffee is outweighing the intrigue of this conversation; walk with me,” Peter instructs.  

“Yes, Peter.”

Stiles rises and follows Peter to the kitchen, glad for a task.  As Peter opens a cabinet to get out a mug, Stiles begins to clean out the coffee pot from its use the morning before.

“Are you going to make me coffee?”

“Yes, Peter,” Stiles replies. “If that’s okay? You said you needed coffee.  I can make coffee.”

“By all means,” Peter replies, stepping back from the counter. “Good to know you’ve got a promising career as a barista if this whole amnesiac teenage werewolf thing stops working for you.”

Stiles doesn’t entirely understand what that means, so he just turns his attention to the coffee as Peter takes an apple from the counter and washes it in the sink.  The Second sits at the bar, watching Stiles work.  Stiles is careful to measure the grounds and water perfectly under the scrutiny.

"Asking permission to make _me_ coffee,” Peter mutters.  “There really isn’t any of the old you left in there, is there, Stiles?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want it back?”

"No.”

“Huh. Interesting,” Peter says. “And what does Derek think about that?”

“I’m a better beta now; I hope he’s glad.”

“It doesn’t matter to you that you don’t have the memories?”

“Nothing matters but the pack,” Stiles recites automatically.  “My place is here, serving the pack in whatever way is required of me.”

“Did they teach you that?”

Stiles nods. “I know my place.  I’m a good beta.”

“I can see that,” Peter says nodding to the now brewing coffee pot.

Stiles smiles at the praise. “Thank you, Peter.”

“So did Derek happen to mention what the hell I’m supposed to do with you while he’s off learning new tricks?” Peter asks.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

From the look of it, Derek’s been pouring through books at Deaton’s for while by the time Isaac walks in for his usual shift at the clinic.

“You look like hell, dude,” Isaac comments. “Is Stiles really that bad?”

“He didn’t eat for a day because I didn’t offer anything, and he was too scared to ask,” Derek quips back.  “Yeah, he’s bad.”

“Holy shit,” Isaac mutters, “Scott said we were fucked, but I thought maybe he was just freaking because it’s his best friend, ya know? I didn’t think—”

“There’s nothing of Stiles left in that husk sitting in my apartment,” Derek says grimly.  “That’s why I have to figure out how to get his memories back.”

“And since you seem to be on the verge of mauling every book in sight, I’m guessing it’s not going well?”

“No.”

“I can see if Deaton can spare me,” Isaac offers. “Help you look?”

Derek runs a hand down his face. “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking for. Deaton says he’s never come across anything about the theory of controlling memories.”

“Then how do alphas learn it?”

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Okay, no theory on control, but you know the general premise, right?”

“Yes.”

“So how about trial and error?”

Yeah, great idea. I’ll take the terrified trauma survivor who already cowers at the sight of me and start slashing the back of his neck with my claws. What could possibly go wrong with that plan?”

Isaac hesitates just a moment before offering, “So try it on me first.”

“What?”

“Practice it on me.”

“You’re serious?”

“It’s worth a shot, right? It’s the only way we’re getting Stiles back, and, from the sound of it, the sooner the better.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I gave Jackson memories without even trying while I was still a fucking beta,” Derek grumbles to Deaton. “Why the hell isn’t anything happening now”

It’s been nearly an hour, and Derek _still_ can’t even get the memories to start taking.  Isaac’s been patient enough, but he knows the beta must be rethinking the decision to volunteer himself as the guinea pig.  Isaac doesn’t complain though.  He just keeps telling Derek to try again.

“You gave Jackson hallucinations,” Deaton corrects, “and most of that was due to the aconite poisoning acting as a catalyst.”

"So if I use wolfsbane, I could—”

“It would do nothing for your control.  It would just make the memories or hallucinations more sporadic.”

“It would at least make _something_ happen. That’s better than nothing.”

“Don’t fucking poison yourself,” Isaac says irritably. “I told you. You look like shit. You’re not up for it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Derek insists.

“Shut up and try again,” Isaac retorts.  “You’re wasting time.”

“You’re neck’s not healed from the last two times.”

“They’re just scratches. They’ll be fine.”

_They’re deep damn scratches, Isaac. I know they hurt._

“Isaac—”

“Oh, my God, Derek, you’ve done worse. We need to fix Stiles. It’s _fine_. Just do it!”

“Fine!”

He lashes out, claw going deep before he pulls away.  Isaac’s face contorts in pain before he pitches forward, clutching his head with a cry of pain.

“Isaac!”

Derek catches him before he falls and helps him to the floor. 

“Isaac, what happened, what—”

“It worked,” Isaac replies, smiling through the mask of pain.  “It hurts like a bitch, but it worked.”

“What?”

“It was a memory from when you were a kid.  I don’t think it’s what you meant to give me, but it was definitely something. Give me a minute, and we’ll go again.”

“You shouldn’t strain yourselves,” Deaton advises.

Derek doesn’t give a damn about straining himself. This isn’t half as stressful as trying to figure out how to take care of brainwashed Stiles. Isaac’s not looking so great though, and there’s black blood oozing out of the wound now.

“What the hell?” Derek asks, looking to Deaton.

Isaac lifts a hand to gingerly touch the back of his neck. 

“Why is it doing that?” he asks Deaton, examining the black gunk on his fingers when he pulls them away.

“The memory isn’t natural; your body’s confused about what’s going on and trying to stop it.  It’s a typical werewolf immune defense.”

"It’s a memory, not a poison,” Derek argues.

“A memory transferred through the bloodstream,” Deaton reminds him.  “If the blood isn’t clear enough to pass the memory, the mind can’t be intruded upon again until it clears.”

“How long will that take?” Isaac wants to know.

“I’m not sure, but, as I said, you two shouldn’t strain yourselves.”     

_Two steps forward, one step back. Fuck my life._

_"_ We’ll give it an hour or two?” Derek suggests.  “That should give them all time to fully heal.”

“Okay.”

“I should check on Stiles anyway—make sure he actually eats something for lunch.”

“Can I come?” Isaac asks; there’s a morbid curiosity behind the request.

"Sure,” Derek replies. 

_You have no idea what’s waiting for you when you walk into that apartment. Once you see him you won’t get the look in his eyes out of your head, but at least you’ll understand why I’d put you through this memory  shit to get him back._

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Dude, is that smell coming from your place?” Isaac asks, his mouth watering as the aroma hits him.

“I told him to cook anything he wanted to; maybe he did?” Derek says hopefully.

The smell intensifies as they walk into the apartment.  The kitchen counters are covered with an insanely impressive array of food. There’s a full meal of laid out: roast, potatoes, carrots, green beans, sautéed mushrooms, rolls, and a salad.  There’s a pie, a plate of cookies, and Stiles is pulling a cake out of the oven now.

“Holy shit,” Isaac breathes. “Talk about going all out.”

“Oh good,” Peter says from where he’s sitting on the couch with a plateful of the culinary offerings. “I was afraid I was going to have to enjoy this all by myself.”

“Stiles, you cooked all this?”

“Yes, Derek.”

The food had distracted Isaac from noticing Stiles, but the words draw his attention now.  He doesn’t even _look_ like Stiles, not really.  He’s standing too still, and his head’s down with his eyes on the floor. Everything about his demeanor conveys the docility that’s come from his time with the alphas.  Derek’s right; Isaac can tell already that Scott wasn’t over-reacting. This isn’t Stiles. 

“You told him to cook anything in the kitchen, didn’t you?” Peter replies. “So he cooked.”

“I can see that,” Derek replies tersely.

Derek’s scowling, and Isaac doesn’t entirely get why.  Apparently neither does Stiles because the look on his face shifts to pure terror in no time and he drops to his knees in front of the stove.

“Derek, I must’ve misunderstood. I’m sorry, Derek, I—”

"I’m not pissed at you, Stiles,” Derek says, clearly trying to keep the anger out of his words but failing miserably.  “Please stand up.”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies, scrambling to obey.

“You told him to cook; he cooked,” Peter says as Derek storms over to stand in from of him.  “What’s the problem?”

“These are _your_ favorite things, Peter.”

“Is it my fault the kid has good taste?”

“Peter—”

“To be fair here, those cookies are entirely for you. You know I hate walnuts.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You spent the morning making him cook for you?”

“He needed something to do; it was a win-win.”

Derek’s anger couldn’t be more clearly directed at Peter, but Stiles still looks petrified.  Isaac can tell from across the room that he’s shaking.

“Stiles, it’s okay,” Isaac assures him as Peter and Derek’s conversation in the living room escalates to a shouting match about whether or not Peter’s taking advantage.   Isaac moves cautiously toward Stiles, but Stiles’ attention is too focused on Derek and Peter’s argument to notice Isaac’s approach.

“The Second told me to cook it,” Stiles says in a hushed whisper. “I thought I was supposed to.”

“Derek’s not mad.”

"Yes, he is.”

“Not at you. He’s pissed at Peter for making you cook.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand. Derek said I could cook anything in the kitchen.  Peter said he was hungry, so I made what he told me to.”  He looks to Isaac in confusion. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Isaac insists. “It’s really okay.”

“It _can’t_ be okay. Don’t you _hear_ them?” Stiles moans, covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.

The words come out so hopeless and broken that Isaac’s pulling Stiles into a hug before he really even thinks about it. _What the fuck did the alphas do to you, Stiles?_        

“I swear it’s fine.  It’ll be okay. They’ll chill out in a minute.”

He realizes that Stiles has stilled completely under his touch, and is about to release him when Stiles relaxes just the slightest bit, hiding his face in Isaac’s shoulder.

“Then what happens?” Stiles asks mournfully, voice muffled into Isaac’s shirt.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” Isaac promises, knowing Stiles doesn’t believe him.  “I swear they’re not, Stiles.”

He realizes then that Peter and Derek have stopped and are staring into the kitchen.  Derek looks guilty as hell; Peter looks as close to remorseful as he ever gets.

“He’s right, Stiles,” Derek says earnestly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

Derek takes a step to come closer, and Stiles jolts back from Isaac to cower against the counters. Isaac turns to face Derek, keeping himself in front of Stiles.

“Give him a sec, dude. You scared the shit out of him,” Isaac says exasperatedly.  

“Stiles, I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“Bang up job, there,” Peter comments with a roll of his eyes. 

“Not helping,” Derek quips back.

“ _Neither_ of you are helping,” Isaac points out.

“Don’t,” Stiles pleads quietly behind him.

“They’re not going to hurt me either,” Isaac promises, turning back to face Stiles.  “Look, I know how scared you are.” _Okay I don’t have any idea, I just have an inkling, but that’s too long a story to tell right now._ “I was the same way before Derek turned me.  I was scared _all_ the time, and it’s terrible. I know it is, but it’s not like that in Derek’s pack.  It’s better.  You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

Stiles doesn’t believe him; of course, this Stiles has never lived any kind of life when fear wasn’t constant so Isaac can’t blame him for letting an existence of experience outweigh the words of a stranger.

“He’s right,” Derek agrees.  “It’s different here, Stiles, and I’m sorry I haven’t explained it better before now. I just—”

 _Suck at non-aggressive communication?_ Isaac wants to finish for him.

“I just—I dunno—let’s eat, okay?” Derek asks, clearly just grasping for something to do to break the unease that’s radiating through the room. “You cooked all of this, and it looks amazing and you haven’t had any.  We’ll eat, and we’ll talk, and you can see it’s different with us. Okay?”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles agrees automatically.

_And then we’re going to keep working on the memory transfer because there is you can’t keep living like this; getting your memories back is the only hope of getting you back, and, looking at you now, I’m not even sure that’s going to be enough._

_Scott was right; we’re so fucked._

 

           

              

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious new level of angst this chapter. 
> 
> No really. THIS IS NOT A DRILL! 
> 
> THERE IS SOME SERIOUSLY ANGSTY AND TRIGGERY-TYPE SHIT, FOLKS. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

“I don’t understand why it isn’t working anymore,” Derek complains.

“Maybe it’s like having an anchor,” Isaac says. “You were pissed that last time we tried.  Maybe the anger gives you the control.”

"That’ll be great. I’ll just get really angry at him before I swipe at his neck.”

“It’s just a theory; I don’t hear you coming up with anything better.”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m just—”

_Losing my mind trying to fix this but it’s something I can’t physically fight and I usually don’t fare too well in those battles._

 “In over your head?” Isaac asks with a knowing look.

Derek nods, sighing heavily and planting his face in his hands. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Isaac insists.

"We better. You saw him at lunch.”

_You saw the confusion on his face the whole damn time.  He doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about when I tell him there’s not going to be any punishments for anything or when I tell him to whatever he wants not whatever he’s told._

“I like to do whatever the pack requires me to do,” Isaac quotes in Stiles timid monotone.  He looks as sick as Derek feels at the memory.  “It’s creepy as hell, dude, and it’s worse ‘cause it’s coming from Stiles of all people.”

Derek agrees completely.  It’s creepy and sickening and just so many levels of _wrong_ that he can’t handle it.  Watching what they’ve done to Stiles has him itching to shift and take out the anger on anything in reach.  Lunch had been no better than breakfast—maybe even worse?—and no matter how many times Derek promises his frustration isn’t because of Stiles, he knows the beta doesn’t understand enough to believe him. He can’t retreat to Deaton’s forever, but he doesn’t know what else to do.       

 “Come on,” Isaac pushes.  “Anger. Try it. Whatever you think about for the full moon.”

“Fine,” Derek agrees. “Worth a shot.”

_My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager.  Peter lost his mind because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager.  Laura is dead because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager._

He knows the instant he connects with Isaac that it worked. Isaac’s sitting in a chair so he doesn’t fall this time, but he still doubles over and grimaces in pain. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuck—I mean good, ‘cause it works—but _damn_ that hurts _._ ”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“What did you see?”

_Please not Kate. Please not Kate. Please not Kate._

“You went to college?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. You never mentioned that.”

Derek shrugs. _You never asked, either._

“Did you graduate?”

“No.” 

_Driving back to California to find and bury my sister’s dichotomized body sort of put a damper on senior year._

“Oh,” Isaac says awkwardly before directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Well, so yeah, at least we know now the anger focus thing works, right?”

“Right.”

“So, now we wait until I can go again? I don’t think it’ll take a full hour this time. That one didn’t hurt _as_ much. Maybe it gets easier with time?”

“Good,” Derek says.  “Here, I can take some of the pain.”

“It’s okay you don’t have to.”

“The better you feel, the faster you’ll heal,” Derek insists, placing a hand gently on the back of Isaac’s neck.  “It’s gonna be a long day.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles has been sitting idle on the couch for _hours_ since Derek and Isaac left, trying desperately not to lose his mind with worry.  He wishes Peter would give him something else to do, but after the way Derek reacted earlier, he knows better than to expect it will happen.   The baseball game Peter’s watching on the television isn’t hard to follow; it doesn’t occupy his mind as much as a task would. 

_f you’re not being useful, you’re being a burden._ The mantra plays unbidden in Stiles’ head. _If you’re not being useful, you’re being a burden.  If you’re not being useful, you’re being a burden._

He knows what happens to betas who burden the pack.  Burdens are cut loose.  Burdens are killed if they’re lucky and cast out to be Omegas if they’re not.

Burdens are left behind at vet clinics with notes carved in their backs.

_And if you’re not being useful, you’re being a burden._

He doesn’t know how to be less of one. No one has given him anything to do. Peter gave him a purpose for a few wonderfully clear hours, but Derek didn’t like it. Derek was _so_ mad, and, even after Derek tried to explain how things work in this pack, Stiles still can’t figure out exactly _why_ Derek was so angry.  He _always_ seems to be angry, and Stiles knows he could make it better if Derek would just tell him _why_ and let him try to fix it.

_I want you to do what you want to do,_ Derek had said.  _Not what Peter wants, or what I want, or what anyone else wants. Do things because you want to.  It’s okay to want things._

Stiles just wants to be useful, he just can’t quite figure out how to do that here,  not without more clues from Derek about what he wants from a good beta.

“Stiles?” Peter says, and Stiles surfaces from his sea of confusion and anxiety for just a moment. 

"Yes, Peter?”

“Do you want to get us sodas from the fridge?”

In doing something as simple as adding ‘do you want’ to the beginning of the sentence, Peter’s kept to Derek’s instructions but also given Stiles the directions he needs. 

“Yes, Peter.”

He can’t help grinning as he hurries to fill the request. 

_Maybe Peter can be the link.  He understands what Derek says, but he understands how to help me, too.  Maybe he can help me be useful._

 

 ***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

A few hours later, Stiles is in the kitchen fetching pie— he’s grateful for the second request and that Peter could tell when it was so badly needed—when the sound of the key in the lock jolts him from the temporary calm of having a task.  When the door opens, he turns just in time to see a flurry of red hair before something very human and _very_ _not pack_ wraps its arms around him.

“Stiles, it’s so good to see you we thought—”

He shoves her back with a growl and shifts, lashing out.  His claws sink into flesh, but the cry of pain isn’t human.  In the next instant, all consciousness is lost as he lets his instincts take over in the fight to protect himself and, more importantly, the pack’s territory. Eventually he takes a blow that sends him toppling backwards, hitting his head hard on the corner of the counter as he goes.  In the moment of charity, Peter’s voce pierces through. 

“Stiles, stop it right now. Stop it.”

Peter’s pinning him to the floor with a clawed hand on his chest.  He doesn’t dare strike the Second, though his instincts scream to attack again. 

“She’s not pack, Peter,” he grits out angrily, trying to maintain some grasp on his control as the pain starts to fade.

“I know she’s not, but it’s okay. She’s not a threat.”

“Never trust anything outside the pack,” Stiles insists.  “Never interact with anything outside the pack. _Nothing_ matters but the pack.”

“Those are their rules, Stiles, not ours,” Peter says firmly, digging his claws in just a hint deeper to emphasize the point, “Understand?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Can you stand?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Good.”

He lets go, and Stiles rises slowly to his feet.  He doesn’t advance again on the beta that’s tensed in front of him, shielding the human.  The beta _is_ pack, though Stiles hasn’t met him yet, and Stiles can’t understand why the traitor would defend her against a packmate or why he would’ve led her to pack territory in the first place.

“Shift back, Stiles. No more fighting, I mean it. You’re not allowed to hurt her.”

Ever obedient, he glances around for something sharp enough.  He takes the fork from the counter next to him and drives it into his leg to get the surge of pain it takes to shift back.

“Stiles, no!” the girl shrieks. “Oh my God, one of you stop him!”

“What the _fuck_?” the other beta demands, shifting back into his human form. “You just stabbed yourself in the leg!”

“What an astute observation, Jackson,” Peter replies, rolling his eyes. 

“He just calmly _stabbed himself in the leg with a goddamned fork!_ ” the beta repeats, voice verging on hysteria. 

"Yes, he did,” Peter agrees.  “I’m guessing he needed the pain to shift back?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Now, who wants to explain what part of ‘Stiles has amnesia’ was unclear?” Peter continues, “and why the hell you two lovebirds decided on a surprise visit that _thoroughly_ fucked over what was a tolerable afternoon up to this point?”     

“Would you just take the fucking fork out and let it heal?” the beta demands, ignoring the Second’s question because his eyes are still transfixed on the handle of the fork that’s protruding from Stiles’ thigh.

“Peter, please, I’m not sure I can keep the control if I take it out,” Stiles counters.

“Take it out, Stiles. I’ll stop you if you shift,” Peter promises.  “Trust me,” he adds with an encouraging smile.

Stiles hesitates before nodding.  He withdraws the implement slowly, trying to make sure his pulse remains as even and as calm as possible. 

“Very good, Stiles.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Stiles, what the hell did they do to you?” the girl asks despondently.

Stiles glances to Peter because he doesn’t understand the question, not that he owes the human an answer, but it would be nice to at least know what the hell she means.  He also doesn’t understand why she’s still crying when she’s no longer in danger of being attacked.

“You’re upset,” Peter says to her. “Jackson’s bleeding; Stiles is _also_ bleeding and barely holding onto control; and I’m trying _really_ hard not to hold it against you two that what was possibly the best blueberry pie I’ve ever eaten is now splattered against that wall.  I’m not entirely sure anyone here is really feeling up to this visit.”

At Peter’s words, Stiles looks around to take in the mess of the kitchen for the first time.  He knows in one glance that Peter’s suggestion that the others leave is a good one.  He can feel the control slipping as the panic rises in his chest. Plates and glasses are smashed all over, there’s blood mixed with the remnants of the cake all over the tile and counters, the pie is indeed smashed against the wall just beside Stiles.

_Oh please God let me get this cleaned before the Alpha comes back._

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Maybe we should call it a day,” Derek suggests. “Or take a break at least. You look like shit.”

“Back at you,” Isaac replies. “Just give me time to heal.  I’m still good to go a few more rounds.”

_Plus it’s kind of interesting to get flashes of your past.  It’s not like you ever talk about it.  College, your family, you never talk about anything but pack business._

“If you’re sure,” Derek concedes.

“I’ve seen how bad Stiles needs this. I’m sure.” 

_I can’t handle seeing him like this any more than you can. He doesn’t deserve to keep living like this, and I can’t take seeing the fear in his eyes all the time._

He winces as an aftershock of pain from the forced memory twinges in his head.

 “They were doing this to him for _months_ , Derek,” he says, sick with the thought of it.  “Eating away at his memories while they trained him into—whoever the hell he is now.”

“I know,” Derek replies quietly, eyes shut tight like he’s trying to erase the images of terrified Stiles as hard as Isaac is.

“You really think we can reverse it?” Isaac asks.

"We can damn sure try.”

They share a few more minutes of silence before Derek’s phone starts ringing.

“Jackson?” he asks as he answers.

“I want to help with whatever you’re doing to get Stiles’ memory back,” Jackson says from the other end of the line, the undercurrent of panic evident in his voice.  “Are you at Deaton’s?”

“Jackson, did you see Stiles?” Derek replies.

“Lydia wanted to see him; she though familiar people would help.”

_You fucking idiot,_ Isaac seethes.  _How could you be that stupid?_

“Dammit, I _told_ all of you he doesn’t remember _anything._ ”

“I know, but we—we didn’t think it was this bad.”

_No one could’ve pictured it being this bad._

“Well, it is,” Derek snaps back.  “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“He shifted on Lydia, but I stopped him before he attacked.  Peter talked him down.”

“Good.”

“Have you seen him try to control the shift yet? He—”

“Uses pain, I know.”

“He stabbed himself with a _fork_ like it was the most natural thing in the world,” Jackson expounds, and Isaac honest to God thinks he might throw up just hearing it. “I mean, what the fuck, Derek? What did they do to him?”

“The easier question would probably be what _didn’t_ they do to him,” Derek answers morosely.

"Motherfuckers, I—ugh!” There’s a dull thud on the other end of the line as Jackson takes out some of the frustration by hitting what sounds like his steering wheel.   “I want to help,” he says again.  “Are you still at Deaton’s?”

“Yeah.”

“I just dropped off Lydia.  I’ll be there soon.”

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Peter, no,” Stiles says as the Second reaches for the broom to help clean the mess of the kitchen.  “It’s my fault.  Please let me.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know I fucked up, but I can be useful. I can clean it up. All of it.  I promise, Peter.”

“If you _want_ to, I’m not going to stop you,” Peter replies with a shrug. 

He walks back to the den and leaves Stiles to his penance.  Stiles knows this isn’t enough.  He can clean, but there’s no changing the fact that he cost the Alpha plates and glasses and food.  What’s worse, _so_ much worse, he lashed out against a higher beta _and_ the Second. It’s more luck than he deserves that none of his blows actually hit Peter, but what he did to the other beta—Jackson?—is more than enough to bring Derek’s wrath.   He tries to focus on cleaning, but he can feel the tremors in his hands starting already. 

_You never, ever strike a superior pack member,_ the authoritative voices of past alphas echo in his mind, _I don’t care if they’re beating you senseless. If you raise a hand against them, you lose the hand. Do you understand, you worthless little shit?_

He pushes past the panic because he has to at least get the kitchen in order before Derek gets back. It’s the one, small thing Stiles can do in an attempt—albeit a pathetic attempt—to show he’s not _entirely_ useless and burdensome.  He succeeds in keeping the terror at bay until he begins to clean the pie from the wall. It’s clear within a few minutes that the ugly purple stains aren’t going to wash completely off the wall no matter how desperately Stiles scrubs.   He can’t stop the whimper that escapes him. 

“Stiles?” Peter says from the den.

_The one simple task of cleaning the kitchen and you’re not even good for that. How can you expect to be kept when all you do is fuck up because you’re too stupid to understand what Derek wants and how his pack works? What use are you?_

Stiles can feel the tears of shame brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over.   The panic is so suffocating he can barely breathe, and he grips the edge of the counter hard for support.  He looks to the knife block next to the stove and almost reaches for one but decides against it.  They all seem unhappy when he uses the pain for control, better to hold off as long as he can. 

“Stiles?” Peter repeats, standing to walk into the kitchen this time.

“What happens when the Alpha gets back?”  he dares to ask softly as he turns to face Peter.

_If I know what he’ll do, I can take it better. I can prepare myself for whatever’s coming and show Derek I can take the punishment—beating or fucking or whatever I deserve for this—so he’ll see I really can learn from it.  I need to show him I can be taught how to act in the Hale Pack. I can be useful.  I don’t want to be a burden._

“We’ll have a nice memorial service for the pie and be thankful for the stain on the wall we have to remember it by,” Peter replies with a grin.

Stiles fails to see what could _possibly_ be amusing right now. 

“Shit, Stiles, look at you. You’re really scared of him, aren’t you?” Peter asks, grin replaced with a more somber look Stiles finds much more appropriate to the moment.  “What do you think is going to happen? Which Alpha Pack rule did you break?”

“If you raise a hand to a superior pack member, you lose the hand,” he answers quietly. 

“That’s not going to happen,” Peter assures him.  “We don’t rank the betas in this pack.  What happened with Jackson doesn’t matter.  The only superiors you have to worry about are me and Derek.”

“You had to stop me though; I must’ve done something to you before you—”

“Nothing Derek needs to know about.”

“You can’t lie to the Alpha!”

“I’m not going to lie,” Peter replies calmly, “but I _can_ leave that part out if he asks me about what happened.”

“Why would do that?” 

_Why would you risk withholding it? You risk bringing punishment on yourself if he finds out.  Why don’t you just let me take it now?_

“I want to help you, Stiles.  I don’t want to see you punished for fighting; it wasn’t your fault.”

“You shouldn’t risk it when there’s so much else; it won’t matter if he doesn’t know what I did in the fight. I still _keep_ fucking up.  I’ve been here two days and _nothing_ I’ve done has been useful to the pack.  If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden, and I _am_ being a burden, Peter. I shift when I’m not supposed to. I don’t understand the instructions Derek gives me.  I make him _so_ angry, and I can’t figure out _why._ ”

“Don’t worry. You’ll figure out your place in the pack before long.”

“I know my place, Peter. I do, but he hasn’t given me anything to do to make up for everything I do wrong, not a punishment to learn from or anything.  I _can_ be a good beta; I can be useful.  I don’t want to be a burden. I know what happens when you burden the pack, and I can be better than this. I swear I can, Peter.”

“Stiles—”

He shouldn’t speak over Peter, but he’s completely frazzled from stress and fear and the overwhelming, bone-crushing feeling that his chance to prove he belongs here is slipping through his fingers.  He can’t help the pleas that continue to pour unbidden through his lips, “I swear I can do _whatever_ the pack needs.  I _swear._ I’ll do anything, _everything_ if Derek will just _tell me what to do_ , but he hasn’t given me rules or orders or jobs.  I have to do _something_ if I’m going to stay _._ Derek said to just do what I want, but that’s what I was doing when I followed your directions and cooked and all that did was make him mad.  I just—” he loses his battle to hold back his tears as he falls to his knees, head in his hands, and confesses miserably, “I just don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.” 

He can’t stop himself from begging for the one chance at purpose he has besides Derek, “Peter, please. You’re the Second. You can give orders; you can help me. Derek said it was okay to want things, and I _want_ you to tell me what I’m supposed to do. I _want_ to be useful.  I _want_ someone to tell me _how_ to be useful. Please, Peter. _Please._ ”

_I need someone to tell me before I go crazy trying to figure it out on my own. Tell me before I fuck up so badly Derek decides I’m not worth the trouble. Please, please just tell me how to earn my place here because I don’t understand anything anymore and I just need something that makes sense._

“We really must confuse the hell out of you,” Peter says pityingly, moving slowly to stand directly in front of Stiles. “Your life was so much simpler before this.”

Stiles doesn’t respond; it’s not his place to criticize Derek’s pack, but it doesn’t make Peter’s words any less true. 

Though he keeps his eyes down, he can feel Peter’s gaze on him, studying him a few moments more before asking, “So you _want_ someone to tell you how to be useful, Stiles?”

“Yes, Peter, please.” _More than anything._

“You said ‘anything and everything’.”

“ _Anything_ I can do, Peter,” he assures, lifting his eyes to Peter’s face.

“Anything?” Peter repeats, and there’s a lascivious glint in his eye that Stiles knows too well to mistake.

“Yes, Peter.” 

_Anything but sitting here feeling like a failure to the pack. Anything I can do._

“If you _want_ to be useful, then I _want_ to help you,” Peter says as he reaches down and cups Stiles’ face in one hand more tenderly that Stiles can ever remember being touched.  He smiles warmly down at Stiles, “Okay?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“No matter how confusing things are with Derek, this can be simple,” Peter promises, thumb gently brushing Stiles’ lips, “one simple way you can be _useful_ to your pack by fulfilling the need of your Second. No matter how long it takes you to understand how everything else works, this will be one way to keep yourself from being a burden.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

Peter reaches to unbutton his jeans, and Stile takes over from there, tension leaving him as he eases into the comfortable rhythm of moves he’s done countless times before: unzipping Peter’s jeans, pulling down his boxers, and working his way up to taking Peter deep into his throat, gag reflex long forgotten through months of training.

_This_ is something Stiles understands. Something that’s _mercifully_ simple, a way to be useful even if he fucks up everything else.  He does every trick he knows to make sure Peter understands just how grateful he is to have this.

_Please don’t promise me this and take it away.  You’re right. I do need something simple, Peter, please._

But he doesn’t think Peter will go back on his word.  Peter’s murmuring encouragements, not demands; his fingers run through Stiles’ hair and grip tight but not enough to hurt; and when he finally comes he says Stiles’ name like he’s something precious.

_Something useful. Not a burden, something to be kept._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Peter answers on the fourth ring.

“Derek?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I wanted to call because Jackson came to help us too,” Derek informs him.  “We’re going to stay a little later than we thought since Isaac doesn’t have to handle it on his own anymore.” 

“Then I take it you heard about Jackson and Lydia’s catastrophic surprise visit this afternoon?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, I heard. How’s Stiles?”

“Well, once I promised him you weren’t going to beat the shit out of him for trying to beat the shit out of Jackson, he calmed down a little.”

“I’ll promise him myself,” Derek offers. “Hand him the phone.”

“He’s showering,” Peter replies. “I told him to get cleaned up once the kitchen was done.”

“Tell me you didn’t make him clean up the mess by himself.”

“He begged me not to help,” Peter replies, “What was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to help him anyway! How’s he going to understand we’re different if you keep playing to all his conditioning from the alphas?”

“We can’t all run away to the clinic when his issues freak us out,” Peter snaps back. 

“Fuck you,” Derek retorts as guilt surges through him.

“Look, Derek, I’m making due. The kid was going to stress if I helped clean, so I didn’t.  I’m not going to apologize for doing what he wanted to keep him calm.”

“Just—don’t take advantage of the situation.” 

_Who am I kidding? You thrive on taking advantage of the situation._

“If he wants to cook or something again, that’s fine. You need to make sure he eats dinner anyway,” Derek continues, “but no more fucking feasts and shit just because you think it’s cool to have a servant. Got it?”

“Yes, O Mighty and Wise Alpha,” Peter replies with a huff.  “Anything else?”

“Just—tell him again I’m not pissed,” Derek says, “and I’m not gonna be pissed.  Tell him not to worry about that.”

_He won’t believe you. He’ll still worry, but tell him anyway._

“Sure,” Peter agrees.  “See you when you get home.  Don’t kill yourself trying to rush and get memories he doesn’t want anyway.”

“He _needs_ them whether he thinks he wants them or not,” Derek replies.  “We’re going to make this work.”

He hangs up the phone and tosses it to the side.

“Peter’s juts being an asshole,” Jackson mutters. 

_Like you’re one to talk._

_"_ Don’t listen to him. Come on, I’m healed up,” he adds.  “Let’s go again. Here’s hoping for something a little more interesting than your Hot-Wheels-themed seventh birthday party this time.”

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you hate me less if I PROMISE the ending is happier? Because I PROMISE it's going to get happier...but in the meantime, sorry I'm not sorry? and I guess if you need happy spoilers to get you through the hard times, message me? 
> 
> Apologies to any Peter lovers out there...I don't hate him despite what this fic may lead you to believe; he just *really* lends himself to being the villain what with him being so canonically selfish and manipulative. :/


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's kind of a monster, but I couldn't ever decide on the best way to split it in two, so yeah...
> 
> Once again, we're getting darker here. IF YOU HAVE TRIGGERS PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“Morning, Stiles,” Derek greets as he walks into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Derek,” Stiles replies, he’s watching Derek carefully out of the corner of his eyes, and Derek isn’t sure why until he sees the poured bowl of cereal, spoon, and milk jug waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

He hates this.  He hates that Stiles doesn’t understand why Derek doesn’t want to be waited on.  He stamps down the frustration that’s building and forces a smile because otherwise Stiles will misinterpret the anger.   They don’t need a repeat of yesterday’s lunch.

“Is this for me?” he asks though he knows the answer.

“Yes, Derek.”

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No, Derek.”

“Would you like some cereal, too?”

“Yes, Derek, thank you.”

Derek’s confused at first when Stiles walks past the cabinet where the bowls are kept.  Then he sees the second bowl and spoon Stiles laid out in the corner beside the microwave. It’s something easily ignored if Derek didn’t offer Stiles anything, but nevertheless a sign that Stiles was hopeful Derek would.

_Baby steps._

Stiles catches Derek watching him and freezes.

“That’s good, Stiles,” he says, smile much more genuine this time.  “Any time you make something for me, you can make yourself the same—more even, if you want, okay?”

“Yes, Derek, thank  you.”

“Thank _you_ for having the cereal out,” Derek replies. “I appreciate it.”

"I’m glad, Derek,” Stiles says, genuine smile of his own coming out.

“You don’t have to stand over there. You can sit here if you want,” Derek says, gesturing to the bar stool next to him.  “Only if you want,” he adds again when Stiles looks unsure.

Stiles comes to sit.  Derek would like to think it’s because _Stiles_ wants to, but they both know it’s because Stiles just wants to do whatever he thinks _Derek_ wants him to do.  Derek still doesn’t know how to explain everything in a way Stiles can understand—hell, he’s honestly still hoping the memories come along fast enough that they only have to deal with _this_ Stiles a few more days—but he’s got to start trying to talk to him.  Peter’s ‘we can’t all run away to Deaton’s…’ yesterday keeps playing on a loop in the back of his mind.

“I know yesterday was kind of stressful,” Derek says.

_Understatement._

“And I kind of made a beeline for the bed and crashed when I got back yesterday,” Derek continues. “I didn’t stop to ask if you were okay?”

“Yes, Derek, of course.”

“’Cause it’s okay to be pissed or freaked or confused or whatever.  There was a lot going on.”

“I’m okay, Derek,” Stiles assures him.

_No, you’re not, but at least you think you are._

“Good.  That’s good.” 

Derek finishes his first bowl and pours a second.  Stiles hands him the milk helpfully.

“Thank you, Stiles.”

“I’m happy to help, Derek. Anything.”

“I know, Stiles,” he replies wearily, “and if I _need_ your help, I’ll ask for it, but in the meantime, you should do what makes _you_ happy.”

“Yes, Derek.”

“And don’t let Peter bully you into doing what he wants.  You have just as much right to everything in this apartment as him—the TV, the food, the books, whatever.  You can do what you want regardless of what Peter wants to do.  Treat this place like it’s yours.  You understand?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies automatically; it’s a lie, but Derek doesn’t have the heart to call him on it. More to the point, he doesn’t have the words to explain it any better.

The sound of a key in the lock takes both Derek and Stiles’ attention from the conversation for a moment. Stiles tenses automatically, no doubt remembering yesterday’s surprise visit.

“It’s okay,” Derek assures him.  “It’s probably just Isaac. I’m giving him a ride to Deaton’s.”

Stiles relaxes just a bit. 

“Hey, it’s just me,” Isaac says, affirming  Derek’s words as the door swings open.

“Morning,” Derek greets.  “Had breakfast?”

“Cindy made oatmeal,” Isaac replies, speaking of his foster mother, “and let’s just say I’m not entirely sure it counted as food at all.”

“Help yourself to some cereal.”

“I can get it for—” Stiles begins to offer.

“No, Stiles, Isaac can do it himself,” Derek says firmly.

He regrets it immediately as Stiles head tucks back down, and he murmurs meekly, “Yes, Derek.”     

“But it was nice of you to offer,” Isaac says, “Derek just wants you to finish your cereal before it gets soggy.  Right, Derek?”

“Exactly,” Derek agrees with a nod, grateful Isaac’s better at this than he’ll ever be.

“So Scott’s coming today too,” Isaac says.  “I know there’s still only so much you can do; you were totally exhausted yesterday. He wanted to help though, so I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“It’ll be good to split it up.  It was taking you and Jackson a while to heal by the time we got finished last night.”

They’d hoped it would get easier with time, but, while at least the headaches with the memories seem to decrease in intensity, the physical wound still takes a decent chunk of time to heal.  After being reopened so many times, Isaac’s has still only healed to a thin, pink scar on the back of his neck.

“If you break something, it will heal more quickly,” Stiles advises Isaac helpfully.  “It will spike your healing so Derek can give or take more frequently.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement—that Stiles remembers clearly how to expedite his healing so the alphas could continue their sick little experiment on him, that he’s offering up the advice so flippantly now in what he clearly thinks is a normal, helpful-tip-sharing kind of way, that this is one of the longest coherent sentences he’s uttered in front of Derek—but the worst by far is the fact that Stiles clearly doesn’t understand the work they’re doing with the memories is really just to help him; he offers the advice as a way Isaac can be most helpful to Derek as though that’s the key point, as though Derek is using the betas for his own benefit, not that they’ve volunteered themselves so they can help a friend and packmate.

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, the too familiar terror back in his voice. “Of course you have your own methods with the memories; I didn’t mean to speak out of place. I just wanted to help, Derek. I thought—”

“I’m not mad at you, Stiles,” Derek replies as Stiles stars to slide forward off his stool, presumably headed to his knees again. “Please don’t kneel.”

“I won’t, Derek,” Stiles promises. “Thank you, Derek.”

 “Don’t _thank_ me, Stiles. Don’t _thank_ me for not wanting you to _kneel_ at my fucking feet. You haven’t done anything to make me mad. I’m pissed at them, not at you, you understand?   I’m mad at _them_ for doing this to you, for teaching you to be this way.”

“But, Derek, I can learn to be different. If you’ll teach me, I can learn.  Whatever you want, Derek.”

“Goddammit, Stiles, that’s not the _point_!” he replies, fist slamming into the counter in frustration before he can think better of it.

Stiles scrambles backwards, toppling the stool in his retreat.

“Derek, you’re not helping!” Isaac rebukes, stepping between Stiles and Derek. “Calm down.”

“Fuck,” Derek mutters, running his hands through his hair and trying desperately to rein in his rage.  “Shit, Stiles, I didn’t mean to scare you.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I lost my temper; I’m sorry.”

Isaac turns his back to Derek so he can face Stiles.   He can see from where he sits that Stiles is quaking against the wall. Isaac lays his hands gently on Stiles’ trembling shoulders.

“Hey look at me,” he requests, voice soft like he’s talking to a frightened animal.  Stiles’ eyes rise from the floor to Isaac’s face, and Isaac continues, “I promise he isn’t going to hurt you.”

_We’ve told him that a million times; he doesn’t ever believe it._

“I know that you always assume your Alpha’s anger is your fault,” Isaac says. “You believe that because that’s what the alphas taught you.  They told you it was always your fault, but _they lied_.  You didn’t do anything wrong, Stiles. You haven’t done anything wrong.  None of it is your fault.  That anger, the way Derek is always mad, it’s never directed at you; it’s directed at things that hurt you.  I know it scares you, but it shouldn’t.   That’s not anger he would use _against_ you, that’s anger he would use to _protect_ you, you understand? Because Derek wants to make sure nothing ever hurts you like the Alpha Pack did, not ever again.   You’re Hale Pack now, and he wants to protect you.  We all want to protect you.”

_Holy shit somebody give this kid a counseling degree._

Stiles’ eyes stay trained on Isaac a few moments more, absorbing the words, before he looks past Isaac to Derek. 

“It’s the truth, Stiles, I swear,” Derek says earnestly. “Please believe it.”

_It’s what I’ve been trying and failing to make you understand the past three days._

There’s a flicker of hope on Stiles’ face, and it’s the most reaction he’s shown to any of the assurances Derek’s given him so far.  It’s another moment or two more before Stiles nods slowly.

“Yes, Derek.”

Isaac’s phone rings from the counter, making the all jump and shattering the moment of sincerity. 

“Scott’s ringtone,” Isaac says.  “He’s probably at the clinic.”

“We should go.”

  _While we can still leave on a good note without him terrified of me._

“Think about what I told you,” Isaac tells Stiles.  “It’s okay if it’s confusing. I’ll explain it to you as many times as it takes until it makes sense, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let Peter control the TV all morning.  Find the cooking channel or something. We’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You’re really good with him,” Derek says as they get into the car.

Isaac shrugs off the compliment.

“I mean it,” Derek says again.

“They made me go to the counselor when I went back to school after the clusterfuck with my dad and running away and everything,” Isaac replies. “Most of it was kind of bullshit, but some of the stuff she said made sense.”

“You were repeating what she told you?”

“Some of it.”

Derek pauses a minute before asking, “What about the part rationalizing why I’m pissed off all the time?”

_Fuck, I walked right into that one; how could I be such an idiot?_

“She thinks you’re my foster brother, not my alpha,” Isaac confesses.  “Of course, _now_ we know that Ms. Morrell’s known about the werewolf thing all along, so maybe she did know it was you.”

“You thought I was mad at you all the time?”

"You’re kidding right?”

“What?”

“Well, yeah, what with the yelling, and the way you were at training, and the general lack of verbal communication, I kind of just assumed it must be me.  My dad was always pissed at me, so why shouldn’t you be?”

“Shit, Isaac.”

“It’s cool; I know you’re not a total asshole now,” Isaac assures him with a grin, trying to lighten the moment, but Derek doesn’t seem to find it funny.  “Hey, seriously,” Isaac adds. “It’s not a big deal anymore.”

“I turned you to get you away from your dad.”

“I know.”

“And then I’m just as bad as he was.”

“Not exactly,” Isaac counters. “And you got better.”

“That’s so fucked up.”

“Our whole lives are fucked up, dude.  None of this is easy.  You had your own shit to deal with. We all did.  We all still do.”

“That’s not an excuse. I’m your Alpha.”

“You were focused on keeping us alive; you didn’t have time to think about everything else.”

“All I managed to do was keep _you_ alive,” Derek replies, “but only because you were still in Beacon Hills.  We both know Scott’s the only reason you stayed.”

“We’ve had this discussion before, Derek. What happened to Boyd and Erica wasn’t your fault.  They _chose_ to leave. What were you going to do? Hold them hostage? You’re not that kind of alpha.”

“I should’ve known the Alpha Pack was so close.”

“Stop it,” Isaac demands.  “Stop it, right now.  We’re not doing this. You’re not doing this.”

He can see the guilt written all over Derek’s face even though Derek’s gritting his teeth the way he does when he’s determined to keep his face blank.  Isaac wishes he’d just kept his damn mouth shut.  Derek doesn’t need this right now, no matter how honest Isaac’s words are.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said our lives are fucked up,” Isaac continues in an effort to undo some of the damage.  “All any of us are doing is the best we can.  You’re no exception, _and_ you have the added pressure of being responsible for a whole pack.   We _are_ actually a pack now. You’re not the same anymore; you run it differently. Why do you think Scott didn’t leave as soon as the threat was eliminated? Jackson and Lydia stuck around too.  If you were the same alpha you were eight months ago, everyone would be gone by now, but they’re not going anywhere because it’s honestly been good to be in the pack.” At Derek’s huff of disbelief he concedes, “Well, aside from the whole near-death bits with the alphas, but those weren’t your fault.  It’ll be even better now with the alphas gone; it’ll be easier. It already is—except for the shit with Stiles.”

“Which we’re going to fix,” Derek insists.  “Soon.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, and because everyone knows the best way to get Derek out of a funk is to give him a challenge so he has something to get his mind off of it, Isaac adds, “So stop beating yourself up when we both know you did the best you could, and you learned from your mistakes.  We don’t have time for that. We’ve got work to do.”

           

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles makes the coffee and scrambles the eggs to have them ready at ten as Peter instructed he should do every morning.  When Peter walks in smiling at five after ten, Stiles has his place already set at the bar.

“Excellent job, Stiles,” Peter compliments.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“I thought I heard a little noise this morning.  Everything all right?”

“Yes, Peter. I just—I got confused, but Isaac said Derek wasn’t mad at me.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t,” Peter agrees, sipping at his coffee.   “Did he give you any jobs to do yet?”

“He told me he would ask for help when he needed it, and, in the meantime, I should do what makes me happy,” Stiles reports.

“Well, that’s annoyingly vague for you, as per usual.”

Stiles agrees, but he isn’t quite bold enough to criticize his Alpha out loud.

“Isaac said I should watch the cooking channel,” Stiles adds, trying not to sound too hopeful; no matter what Derek said earlier, he doesn’t think he could work up the courage to watch something Peter doesn’t want to. 

“That’s not a bad idea; I’m sure you could learn something from it. If you see something you’d like to cook. I’ll get the ingredients for you.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Did Derek say when he’d be back?”

“Isaac said they would see us for lunch,” Stiles replies. “I could cook something.”

“Do you _want_ to cook something?”

“Yes, Peter, but—but yesterday…”

“We went a bit overboard yesterday.  Today we’ll keep it simple, and it should be fine.”

“Yes, Peter.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Dude, something smells awesome,” Isaac says as they walk in the apartment.

“Spaghetti,” Stiles answers turning to greet them with a grin.  “I made lunch.” His eyes glance to Derek worriedly, “I _wanted_ to, Derek.”

“I’m glad you did,” Derek replies, needing more than anything to keep that smile and get rid of the uncertainty on Stiles’ face. “That’s awesome. We’re starving.”

Stiles grin widens. “I made plenty. I didn’t know if Scott and Jackson would come too.”

“Maybe another day,” Derek replies.  “I’ll give you a heads up when they’re coming.”

_I’m not sure they really want to see you like this anymore anyway, and I’m not risking overwhelming you._

“Hey, Lydia sent you something,” Isaac says.

“Lydia?”

“The human that came with Jackson yesterday,” Peter supplies helpfully.  “Remember the overenthusiastic red-head with a tendency to cry a lot?”

“She sent _me_ something?”

Stiles looks between the three of them trying to understand what he’s missing. 

“She sent it with Jackson this morning,” Isaac expounds.  “I think she felt bad for catching you off guard yesterday.  It’s some pictures and stuff; she wrote little explanations for you.”

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be horribly confusing at all,” Peter mutters.

“She’s trying to help,” Derek retorts.

It’s a nice gesture, and a damn good idea overall.  Lydia must’ve worked almost constantly after she left here yesterday.  Derek can understand that though, needing to feel like she’s _doing_ something to help.  He’s not entirely sure how Stiles is going to react to it, but he hopes it helps on some level.

“I’ll stick it on the couch, okay? You can take a look later if you want,” Isaac says.

Stiles clearly isn’t sure what the hell the correct reaction to any of this is, so he nods and turns his attention back to the pasta sauce.

“So what’d you do this morning?” Isaac asks, moving them past the awkward silence.

“We watched the Food Network,” Stiles replies.

"Highly educational,” Peter adds.  “Stiles paid excruciatingly close attention. He’s preparing lamb for dinner.”

“Because _Stiles_ wants to or because _you_ want him to?” Derek asks.

"Stiles wants to,” Peter replies.  “Don’t you, Stiles?”

Stiles hesitates, looking unsurely from Peter to Derek; he’s picked up on the fact that Derek’s not thrilled with this plan but doesn’t seem sure how to proceed.

_Fuck, I should’ve just gone with it._

 “Yes, please, Derek?” Stiles answers cautiously.

“That would be great, Stiles, thank you,” Derek replies with a glare to Peter once Stiles’ back is turned.

_You know damn well he’s going to follow your lead on questions like that.  I can’t tell him ‘no’ without feeling like an asshole because he doesn’t understand. Dammit Peter, step enjoying this so much.  I know he used to be a snarky ass to you, but you kind of deserved that.  It doesn’t mean you turn him into your personal chef now._

Peter shrugs unapologetically before asking, “Are you actually going to be back for dinner tonight?”

“Things this morning were good, so we’ll keep at it and see where it goes. We overdid it yesterday, so we should be home earlier tonight.”

“Especially if Stiles is cooking lamb,” Isaac adds.

“So your control’s better?” Peter asks.

“It’s getting there.”

“I want to help,” Stiles blurts.  It’s clear he’s worked himself up to get the sentence out because it was practically all one word. He tenses for Derek’s reaction as he continues, “I know you said you would ask for my help if you needed it, Derek, but I _want_ to help. I’m pack, Derek; I should help, too.”

_The whole point of doing this at Deaton’s is to keep you out of it.  I can’t do that to you, Stiles. I can’t. Not until we’re absolutely sure it can help. I can’t see you hurt on top of everything else.  It’s hard enough to hurt the others._

“I appreciate that, Stiles,” Derek says, “I _really_ do, but the truth is I can barely keep it up alternating between three of them.  If we need a fourth, I’ll ask you.”

“Yes, Derek.”

“Besides,” Isaac adds. “None of us can cook as good as you.  We need you here.”

Derek nods.  “Right.”

“Yes, Derek. However I can be useful.”

“Thanks, Stiles.”

“Of course, Derek.”

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek and Isaac insist on helping to clean the kitchen before they leave for the clinic.  Stiles still doesn’t understand Derek’s reluctance to be waited on.  Perhaps it’s an assertion of power, a reminder that he doesn’t _need_ anything from his betas.  He’s the Alpha, though, and Stiles knows his place; he doesn’t need this reminder. Anything he does for Derek is something he’s _allowed_ to do to feel useful, not something the alpha truly _needs_ his assistance to accomplish.

Once they’re gone, Stiles finds himself on the couch staring at the black book Isaac deposited there earlier.  Stiles knows it’s called a scrapbook; it should be filled with pictures of things. Beyond that he has no idea what to expect when he opens it.  He debates a while just placing it to the side to be forgotten, but Derek wouldn’t have had Isaac leave it if he didn’t think it was something Stiles should see.

He opens the cover slowly.  On the first page is a handwritten note. 

           

“Dear Stiles,

I know this is all really confusing for you, and I hate that. I know being there in person wouldn’t be any use to you right now, so this is the best I can do.  I really do hope this helps, even a little. We’re all pulling for you.

Love, Lydia”

 

He turns the page to see his face staring back at him from an array of pictures. 

_Wait, no, that isn’t me._

The boy in the pictures looks too different.  There’s something—his eyes maybe? Or his face? Or the way he stands? Stiles can’t entirely put his finger on it—too foreign for this to really be him.  He wonders for a moment if this could be some elaborate trick, but there’s no lesson to learn from this, no benefit he can see for Derek.  This only adds to his confusion, which won’t help him assimilate into the pack the way Derek wants him to. 

He wonders next if there’s been a mistake somehow.  They all think he’s this boy in the pictures, but what if he’s someone else entirely? What if he hasn’t lost any memories? Maybe this boy they all seem to care so much about is somewhere else out there, and they just haven’t found him yet. 

_Maybe I’m not Stiles._

But _Stiles_ is the one Derek will keep in his pack, the one Derek wants to protect, the one they’re trying to get back.  _Stiles_ is the one with a place here.

_So then what happens to me if I’m not him?_

Even if this isn’t a mistake, even if these pictures are all things he remembers when Derek ‘fixes’ him, Stiles can’t begin to fathom being the boy in these pictures.  This boy is who they want and who they miss—the boy making faces at a camera, the boy ice skating with Lydia, the boy dousing Scott with a water gun—not the serious, well-trained beta he’s become.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Peter says quietly, coming behind the couch to lay a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“What if I can’t be like this?” Stiles asks fearfully.  “What if it doesn’t work when Derek tries to fix me?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, remember?” Peter replies.  “You’re useful just as you are.”

Stiles draws a shaky breath, calming himself with the promise in Peter’s words, and nods.

“Yes, Peter.”

“Come,” Peter beckons.  “Let’s see if we can’t give you a little clarity.”

Stiles feels relief wash over him as he closes the books, casts it aside, and follows Peter down the hall.

_Something simple.  Something that can always be simple._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“How is he, Derek?” the sheriff asks over the phone. 

Derek’s been ignoring the calls all day, but reminded him that if Derek didn’t answer the sheriff might go to the apartment which would be _so_ much worse. 

“Better,” Derek tells him.  “Still a long way to go, but he’s better. He’s okay for now.”

“And the memory control?”

“We’ve got good progress.  A day or two more and I should be able to start giving him memories. We can start getting Stiles back.”

The sheriff lets out a mirthless laugh, “Oh, son, I think we both know we’re never getting Stiles back, not really.”

The sheriff sounds wrecked, not that Derek would expect anything less.  The man spent months with the pack tirelessly searching for his son, holding out hope that they’d find him alive. 

_Well, we found him alive; the problem is you still haven’t really gotten your son back._

“I know you’re going to try,” the sheriff says earnestly.  “But if this really goes the way we want it to, if he _does_ get the memories back, the bad will come with the good.  We don’t get to reset to the Stiles that disappeared; we get the one the alphas had for four months.”

_You think I haven’t thought about that? We’re going to trade one mindfucked Stiles for another. I just hope to God we’re trading for the lesser of two evils. I can’t think about that; it’s all I can do to handle one problem at a time.  I have to hope we can get most of him back through the memories and that we can figure out the rest as it comes._

“He’ll be okay,” Derek insists.

_Eventually at least. He has to be.  He’s Stiles._

“I hope you’re right.”

"I’ll call you if there’re any updates.”

“When can I see him?”

“He attacks anything that isn’t pack on instinct,” Derek replies. “It’s not safe yet, not for you or for him.  You’ve seen what he’ll do to himself to control the shift.”

“You can’t teach him to control it like the rest of you?”

“He doesn’t have any memories to use as an anchor.”

“You could try.”

_Controlling the shift is so far down the list of priorities I can’t even tell you._

“Sheriff—he’s—look he’s—he’ll be fine, but there’s only so much we can throw at him at a time.”

_There’s only so much I can handle with him at a time.  I’m still trying to make it through meals without me losing my temper and him panicking. We’re nowhere near anything as complicated as teaching him how to control the shift._

“As soon he can control it, as soon as it’s safe—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Just—help him.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Derek promises. 

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Clothes off,” Peter instructs as he begins to remove his own.   

“Yes, Peter.”

Once Stiles stands completely naked he adds, “Good, now on the bed on your hands and knees.”

“Yes, Peter.”

Stiles stays still, breathing deeply in an effort to relax and move readily however Peter guides him; he’s still just grateful Peter started this continuation of their arrangement with no command to run or fight until _forced_ to submit like so many of the Alpha Pack preferred.

Stiles is caught off guard when it’s Peter’s fingers that penetrate him first, but he knows better than to pull away at the shock of it.  He's glad he didn't because he quickly understands and appreciates that Peter’s trying to work him open gradually.  He still can’t stop the sharp gasp of pain that escapes him when Peter finally settles himself deep inside of him, but the intrusion just aches and stretches unpleasantly; it doesn’t tear and rip at him the way it always has before with the alphas.  He finds himself marveling again at how differently Peter goes about making use of him than any of the alphas ever did, hurting him as little as possible even in this show of dominance.  It’s more kindness than Stiles dared to expect.

“Go and shower,” Peter instructs once he’s finished with Stiles. “Shower _well_ ,” he adds.  “You don’t want Derek to catch too much of my scent on you.”

Panic surges through Stiles at the ominous tone in Peter’s voice.

“I don’t understand, Peter.”

“Derek is your Alpha,” Peter replies.  “We both know that you respect his place as Alpha. Derek knows it too.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“But you know how possessive alphas are, don’t you, Stiles?”

He flinches slightly at the unbidden memories the question draws to the surface.

“Yes, Peter.”

“So you know what I mean when I tell you that if Derek, _your Alpha_ , catches my scent on you, those possessive instincts will kick in, and he’ll have no choice but to remind you who you belong to.  He’ll _have_ to remind you that he comes before the Second and that you must be loyal to him first.”

 “Yes, Peter,” Stiles replies somberly, the picture of the scene all too vivid in his mind. 

He’s never had a Second before. The alphas all had equal entitlement to the betas in his last pack; any possessive claiming was just for show, just a game his alphas had indulged in whenever they required distraction from the ongoing fights.  He can’t help trembling at the thought of how much worse a _true_ demonstration of possession and dominance must be.

“Derek said himself if he needed something from you, he would ask, and he’s told you dozens of times that he doesn’t want to hurt you,” Peter continues.  “So if he hasn’t asked, then he doesn’t need _or_ want this from you, Stiles.  That means Derek finding out would force him into something he doesn’t want, and it would force him to hurt you which is _another_ thing he doesn’t want. Is that a position you want to see your alpha in? Forced to do something that would make him unhappy because of you?”

“No , Peter. Never.”

“Do you remember yesterday when I told you that Derek didn’t need to know that you struck at me while you were fighting with Jackson?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Derek didn’t need to know because you didn’t need to be taught a lesson.  You already knew that it was wrong, and I didn’t want to see you punished for a rule you already understand.  Do you see that?”

“Yes, Peter, thank you.”

“This is no different.  Derek doesn’t need to show you what he has a right to do as your Alpha; you already know, and you would obey him _anything_ he asked, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“That’s good, Stiles. I know that you know your place, and I don’t want to see you hurt for something you already understand better than any other beta in this pack.  Do you understand why this is something that Derek doesn’t _need_ to know about?  You see what I’m trying to do for you?  You see what I’m trying to protect you from?”

“Yes, Peter. Thank you.”

“Good boy,” Peter says, smiling down at him and running a hand through his hair.  “Now, go shower.   You’ll need to start dinner soon.”

“Yes, Peter,” Stiles replies, scrambling to obey.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“Why the fuck isn’t the control getting any more precise?” Derek rants. “This is such bullshit!”

He wants to shift and fight something. He wants a battle he can sink his teeth and claws into.  He needs something to feel like he’s _doing_ something and not just running in circles putting his betas through the pain for nothing.

“This is _exhausting_ ,” Scott says.  “Especially for you.  Maybe we just need to call it a day.”

“Stiles is cooking anyway,” Isaac adds.  “We have to at least take a break.  He’ll be disappointed if you’re not there.”

“Stiles is cooking?” Scott asks.

“It’s one of the few things he learned from the alphas that seems normal enough.  It gives him something to do while we try to figure this out,” Isaac replies. “You two could probably come too if you want.”

_No. Say ‘no’._

“Last time I was in the same room with him, he tried to eat Lydia and then stabbed himself with a fork; I’ll pass,” Jackson replies.

“Don’t be an asshole; he couldn’t help that!” Scott replies defensively.

_He’s not being an asshole. He’s got the same kill-it-with-cynicism defense mechanism everyone else in this pack has but you, Scott._

“You want to come then, Scott?”

“Um—I think this version of Stiles kind of thinks I’m a bad influence? I don’t know, I just—I don’t know what to do with him like this? The other day talking to him was bad enough, but apparently that was the tip of the iceberg? I don’t want to push it.”

_Neither of you want to see him like this.  Fair enough. I don’t particularly care to go home to it either. Unless I figure out how to get this frustration out, he’s going to think I’m pissed at him all night anyway and Isaac or Peter will have to convince him I won’t beat him within an inch of his life while I back away helplessly just getting more pissed because I can’t control my temper well enough around him._

“We won’t overwhelm him tonight,” Derek agrees.  “Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe later, once we can start giving him memories.”

_Maybe once we get him back to normal—or normal enough._

“What if this doesn’t work in the next couple days?” Isaac asks. “What if—”

“It will; it has to,” Derek replies firmly.

“We can’t stall and leave him sitting at the house with Peter forever.”

“It won’t take forever. It’s getting better. I can at least keep to recent memories now.  The control is coming it’s just—”

“Not strong enough,” Deaton chimes in, walking into the back.  “I don’t think anger’s going to get you were you need to be with this, Derek.”

“If it can stop the shift, it should be more than enough to—”

“I’ve been thinking,” Deaton interrupts and Derek bites back a groan of frustration.

Advice from Deaton’s really a fifty-fifty shot at getting something worthwhile. Half the time he gets all Philosophical Yoda on them and Derek stifles the urge to strangle him to make him shut up.  The other half he’s actually getting to the point and passing along really useful stuff. 

“You have a very physical reaction to your anger, Derek, and you use it to control a physical change.”

_Thank you, Captain Obvious._

“And?’ Derek prods.

“Memory control is different.  It’s not physical as much as it is mental and emotional.  Maybe you need a different catalyst to _really_ master it.”

_What the fuck does that even mean? What the hell else would I use? Anger is the strongest emotion I’ve got._

“The anger is working; I just need more time. It’ll be fine.”

Deaton shrugs and walks past them into the back kennels. “It’s just an idea.”

Derek’s pissed _and_ exhausted now.  Scott, Jackson, and Isaac aren’t exactly looking great or healing quickly.  Derek thinks there’s some merit to Scott’s earlier suggestion

“Okay, Scott’s right. Let’s call it at day.  We’ll pick it up again in the morning.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s past eleven when Isaac walks back to Derek’s.  He’s sure Derek’s fast asleep after the day he had and the run he took to try and work off some of the frustration so Stiles would stop quaking just from being in the same room as Derek too long.   Peter’s probably in his room so Isaac’s really only worried about startling Stiles. He tries to make just enough noise to alert Stiles to his approach without waking anyone else.   

“Stiles?” Isaac says quietly as he opens the door to the apartment.   “I dunno if you’re in here, but don’t worry; it’s just me.”

“I’m here,” Stiles confirms, and Isaac jumps as Stiles moves forward out of the shadows.  “It’s late. I didn’t think any of you came over this late.”

“My foster parents are pissed at each other,” Isaac replies. “They’re not actually yelling, but the whole werewolf hearing thing doesn’t really lend itself to tuning out arguments.  The house is just four or five blocks from Derek’s, so I crash here sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“I know you’ve got dibbs on the couch, but I thought I’d steal the recliner if you don’t care?”

“That’s fine, Isaac.”

Stiles turns to walk back to the den, and Isaac follows.  Stiles has the TV muted, but it’s tuned to the Food Network.  Isaac’s still proud of thinking of that particular programming suggestion.  There’s a half-eaten jar of peanut butter on the end table.  Derek says it’s the only thing in the kitchen Stiles will take without direct permission. 

_Well, at least he took one of Derek’s have-this-if-you-want-it commands to heart. That’s progress, right?_

“You want to watch something else?” Stiles asks. “Peter and Derek seem to like the sports channels better.”

He offers the remote but Isaac doesn’t take it.

 “No, this is fine.  I’m probably going to be asleep in five minutes or less anyway.  I’m kind of beat.”

Stiles eyes widen in alarm, and Isaac rushes to clarify, “No, not hurt.  I  meant ‘beat’ like tired, not ‘beat’ like actually beaten. Sorry that was maybe the worse word choice ever. Especially if I’m talking to you.  My bad.”

“You _are_ hurt though,” Stiles says, “from the memories at least. Your neck still has the mark on it.”

“It’s not so bad. It’ll be worth it.”

“I wish Derek would let me help,” Stiles confides quietly. “Taking the memories hurts all of you.  It makes everyone so tired, especially Derek, and he comes back angry even if he tries to pretend he’s not. Strategically it’s nothing but a disadvantage to the pack.  I wouldn’t help much, but it would lessen the effects among the betas at least.”

“Not everything’s about strategy, Stiles.”

_You don’t get that now, but you will.  Eventually._

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac wakes to the sound of quiet whimpering. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles is curled in a ball on the couch, one fist jammed against his mouth, stifling the noise even though he’s fast asleep.  There’s no doubting he’s in the middle of a nightmare. God knows he’s got enough fodder for nothing but nightmares the rest of his life.

“Stiles,” Isaac says, moving to wake him.  “Hey, Stiles, wake up.”

He jolts awake with a strangled cry when Isaac shakes his shoulder.

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay. It’s just me.  You’re okay,” Isaac assures him.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry, Isaac. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.  You looked like you were having a bad dream. You all right?”

“I’m fine; thank you, Isaac,” Stiles replies, “You should sleep.  You were tired.”

Stiles is shaking and looks on the verge of tears. There’s no way Isaac’s going to just drift back to sleep and leave him awake to try and calm himself alone.  Stiles needs a good distraction, and Isaac has just the thing.

“Nah, I’m awake now,” he tells Stiles. “It’s morning already anyways. A little coffee and I’ll be fine. Hell, I might even make breakfast.”

“You cook?”

“Not as good as you,” Isaac replies and is rewarded by the small but proud smile on Stiles’ face, “but I can handle pancakes.”

“Pancakes?”

“Yeah, do you remember pancakes?”

“I know what they are.”

“But you don’t actually know what they taste like?”

“No.”

_Dear God, your life is so pathetic on so many different levels._

“Then we’re _definitely_ not going back to sleep.  We’re making pancakes,” Isaac informs him offering Stiles a hand up from the sofa before leading the way to the kitchen.

“Derek usually just wants cereal,” Stiles tells him.

“Usually, “Isaac concedes, “But I happen to know that Derek is, in fact, a _huge_ sucker for blueberry pancakes.”  _His mom used to make them on Sunday mornings; I’ve seen the memory myself._ “Which, if we’re lucky, means he probably has the stuff to make them stocked in the kitchen.” 

“There are blueberries,” Stiles affirms.  “Peter bought more after I made the pie.” 

His eyes flicker over to the stain that’s still on the wall.  Isaac’s seriously considering drawing a smiley face into the biggest splotch in an attempt to get Stiles to stop staring at it guiltily every time he walks in the kitchen.

“Awesome, I’ll grab all the stuff from the fridge; you grab the mix from the pantry and find us a pan.” 

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Pancakes._

Stiles doesn’t remember what they taste like, but if it’s anything nearly as heavenly as the smell they make when they’re cooking, he’s going to love them.  Even better, if this really is something Derek prefers for breakfast, Stiles might get away with making them often. 

_Don’t get ahead of yourself.  Derek hasn’t even found out you’re doing this yet._

“Okay, moment of truth,” Isaac says as Stiles takes the first few out of the pan.  “You have to try one before you keep going.”

Stiles hesitates just a moment.

 _Any time you make me something, you can make yourself the same,_ Derek had told him.  This is okay. This is allowed.  Isaac’s not trying to get him punished.

“Go on,” Isaac encourages.

Stiles picks one up and takes a timid bite, followed quickly by a much bigger one because it’s even better than he thought it was going to be.

“Awesome, right?” Isaac asks, grinning.

“Awesome,” Stiles agrees wholeheartedly with a mouth full of fluffy, golden deliciousness.

Stiles continues to nibble at the pancake as they set back to work making more.  By the time they hear Derek stirring down the hall, there’s a sizeable stack.  Stiles tries not to worry that Derek won’t like this.  He replays Derek’s permission in his head over again a few more times.  There’s no logical reason he should be in trouble, but, nevertheless, anxiety builds as he hears Derek approach.

“Pancakes?” Derek asks hopefully as he comes into sight, the bright smile on his face completely dissipating Stiles’ worry. 

“Yes, Derek.”

“Blueberry pancakes,” Isaac expounds.

“You two are officially the new favorite betas, just don’t tell the others.”

"You mean we weren’t before?” Isaac asked. “I’m hurt, Derek, really.”

Stiles can tell from the tone of Isaac’s voice and Derek’s continuing smile that they’re joking, and, while Stiles doesn’t entirely understand what’s amusing, he follows their lead and smiles along with them. 

“Shut up, and pass me the syrup,” Derek quips back.   “These look perfect, Stiles,” he adds. “Great job.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“Hey, a little credit to the batter maker,” Isaac cuts in.  “It’s a delicate art.”

"It was Isaac’s plan,” Stiles admits.

“Well, thank you both then.  This is awesome.  It beats the hell out of cereal.”

Stiles can’t help smiling again.  This is the most happy and relaxed he’s _ever_ seen Derek.  He’s not sure what set it up exactly. Does Stiles owe it to Isaac’s presence? Or the pancakes? Maybe he’s just incredibly damn lucky today. 

_I’ll ask Isaac later. He said he’d explain why Derek’s angry as many times as I needed.  Maybe he can explain this too.  Maybe he can help me understand how to help keep Derek this happy._

Because Stiles wants more mornings like this.  He wants Derek to grin across the kitchen at him.  He wants to revel in how glad Derek is to see both his betas enjoy the pancakes just as much as their alpha.  He wants this calm to keep pushing back the anxiety that usually consumes him.

_And Derek says it’s okay to want things._

Isaac gets Derek talking about the Mets. Stiles knows they’re a baseball team but nothing beyond that.  Stiles takes in their words but mostly just enjoys the animated way they talk about it and the fact that their voices rise out of excitement, not anger.  Derek promises they can all go to a ballgame when Stiles feels up to it, but assures him there’s no rush.

Stiles soaks in the pleasure of having Derek sit here with them, taking clear pleasure in the contentedness of his betas, not in their pain.  Stiles thinks he’s starting to see some of the truth in what Isaac said yesterday about Derek wanting to protect his pack. 

_Derek’s glad that that we’re enjoying this.  He’s glad that I’m not afraid.  If I were hurt, I’d be afraid.  If I’m afraid, Derek isn’t glad; he’s angry. Protecting me, protecting the other betas, makes us feel safer.  It makes the pack unafraid so Derek can be glad of it?_

He still doesn’t fully understand _why_ Derek would allow his contentedness to revolve so heavily around the state of his betas, but it’s more clarity on the topic than he’s had before. It’s the most logic he’s been able to apply to any of the explanations they’ve offered about how the Hale Pack works.

There’s plenty of wrath in Derek; Stiles has seen bits of it even if he’s never fully incurred it.   His interactions with Derek should always reflect the respect he owes his Alpha and the understanding that he is at Derek’s mercy while he’s in this pack.  Nevertheless, this morning reveals more clearly a new dynamic to be taken into consideration as he tries to please his Alpha.  Understanding what Derek wants is a process so much more complicated than Stiles had first hoped, but he has something simple with his Second to hold on to while he figures it out his Alpha.  He can take time to learn what he needs to do and how he needs to act to recreate good moments like this one. 

_I’m going to figure this out.  I’m going to find ways to show Derek I’m not afraid so he can be glad of it.  I’m going to learn how to make him smile like that as often as I can._

 

 

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See look. I almost split this chapter right after that last Peter/Stiles, but instead I left off with pancakes and optimism :) I'm not totally evil :) 
> 
> Again, apologies to folks out there who don't see Peter this way. Especially now that he's move from the gentle, testing the waters to the outright taking advantage of the situation and scaring Stiles silent this story's not going to be very forgiving for him...just a heads up so I don't get anyone's hopes up.


	6. Chapter 6

“Derek, you _have_ to use something besides anger, today,” Scott insists.  “You’ve wasted two days since Deaton suggested you try something else and we—”

“Wasted?” Derek repeats incredulously.  “ _Wasted?_ ”

“Yes!” Jackson agrees.  “We’re exactly where we were before.  It’s like beating our heads against the fucking wall. It doesn’t make any sense. You haven’t even tried--”

“I’ve been killing myself trying to figure this out!” Derek insists.

“Nobody’s saying you’re not trying, dude. We’re all pissed and exhausted and frustrated as hell.  That’s why we’ve got to start changing it up instead of running in circles. We need something different,” Isaac implores.

“If the anger doesn’t work, nothing’s going to work.”

_I don’t have anything else to pull from. Nothing that’s strong enough. Don’t you idiots get that?_

“Would you just fucking try?” Jackson pushes, his annoyed bitchface out in full force. “Because I have things to do besides serve as a living pincushion for this foray down memory lane.”

“ _You_ have things to do?” Derek demands, closing the distance between them and scowling down at Jackson.  “ _You’re_ tired of this? _You_ want to be done?”

“Derek, come on,” Scott says, hand on Derek’s shoulder trying to pull him away.  “He didn’t mean it like that. Chill out.”

“I’m _so_ sorry this is an inconvenience to you, Jackson,” Derek continues scathingly.  “I’m _so_ sorry _you_ feel victimized on behalf of your packmate who has _enough trauma in his head to employ every shrink from here to the Atlantic_!  How could I ever do this to _you_? What was I thinking?

Oh wait! _Maybe_ I was thinking that getting Stiles his fucking _life_ back is more important than our comfort and convenience! _Maybe_ I was thinking that Isaac’s spent the past three nights sleeping in the recliner at my place so he can wake Stiles up from nightmares that may _never_ go away! _Maybe_ I was thinking about how Stiles has to fucking maul himself to control the shift because he doesn’t have enough decent memories to find an anchor and the full moon is in six days!  _Maybe_ every fucking thing I’ve done in the past week has been focused on helping _him_ and if _you_ get a little frustrated along the way at being a ‘pincushion’, you’re just going to have to suck it the hell up like the rest of us.”

“Gee, Derek, can’t imagine why he’d find you scary,” Jackson retorts, voice carefully unaffected.

Derek pushes him hard and pins him against the wall, gripping at his shirt collar.  “Shut the hell up, Jackson,” Derek orders, voice low and deadly. 

“Derek, stop it! This isn’t helping anything,” Scott insists, pulling at Derek’s arm. 

“If you don’t like the way I’m doing this, you can leave,” Derek tells Jackson.  “Otherwise, let me know when you three are healed up for the next round.”

He shoves Jackson back against the wall again before releasing his collar and storming out the back.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac follows Derek to finds him punching the shit out of the back wall of the clinic.  After five or six solid connections that have to be breaking fingers, Derek lets out a growl of frustration and turns to lean wearily back against the brick, sinking to sitting with his head in his hands. 

_Ah, fuck, Derek.  Why can’t you ever just admit when shit’s getting to you? Why’s it always got to be an explosion like this?_

Isaac moves to sit next to him.

"Feel better?” he asks.

“Fuck off, Isaac,” Derek mutters.

“Guess not then.”

“Anger is the strongest emotion I have,” Derek tells him, a phrase he’s been repeating through the last two days of infuriatingly unsuccessful memory work. 

“I know.”

_It’s practically radiating off you to one degree or another 99% of the time._

“If anger doesn’t work, nothing will.”

“You heard Deaton.  It’ll work, but it’s not going to get as precise as you need it to be.”

“I’ll make the anger work.”

_No, you won’t.  You’ve got to try something else._

“Your hands are broken,” Isaac says, nodding to Derek’s bruised and bleeding knuckles. 

"Better than Jackson’s face,” Derek grumbles in reply. 

“True.”

“He’s right,” Derek admits dejectedly. “No wonder Stiles is fucking terrified of me.”

Isaac hates seeing Derek in moments like this.  After the anger vents itself so intensely, there’s not much left but the guilt or self-loathing or whatever other self-deprecating emotion that was driving the anger in the first place.

“You’re doing the best you can. It’s not your fault. This version of Stiles was always going to be scared of you. You’re his Alpha.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Here,” Isaac says, placing his hands gingerly over Derek’s to pull some of the pain and change the topic for at least a moment or two.

"You don’t need to—”

“The better you feel the faster you heal,” Isaac reminds him. “Your words, not mine.”

Derek rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull his hands away.  They sit in silence a few minutes more.  Isaac’s trying to read something from Derek’s face to gauge how bad this downward spiral might get, but Derek’s keeping it carefully void of anything but anger as he glowers at the pavement.

“Okay, so anger’s your strongest,” Isaac concedes, “but what’s second strongest? There’s got to be something else.”

“There’s _really_ not.”

“Dude, come on, you’re not _that_ pathetic,” Isaac teases.

Derek doesn’t reply, but when his eyes meet Isaac’s the unspoken _Yes I am_ fucking shatters his heart.  Isaac forgets too often that Derek’s twenty-two with just as much emotional baggage—hell, _more_ —weighing  on him as the rest of them.  It’s easy to look past it, especially when Derek’s always trying to bury it, but it’s definitely still there.

“Derek, no,” Isaac protests.  “Don’t look at me like that.  There’s not _just_ anger in you. You’ve got plenty of other options.”

“Yeah, sure,” Derek scoffs.

“What was it before it was anger? There was something else before that; there had to be.”

_I’ve seen the old memories. I’ve seen what you used to be like, and it’s nothing near the darkness in you now._

Derek’s quiet so long Isaac’s not sure he’ll get a reply; he can’t say he’d be surprised. It’s kind of a personal question, and Derek’s never been one to do the whole sharing and caring thing.  The memories he’s shared in the past several days have taught Isaac way more about Derek than the past eight months of knowing him.   

“My family,” Derek says finally.

_Really should’ve seen that coming from a mile away._

“So what about the pack then?” Isaac asks.

“This pack isn’t a family,” Derek replies bitterly.

The words hurt more than they should, but Isaac tries not to show it.  He’d be pissed at him for saying shit like that if Derek didn’t look so fucking dejected right now.

“It’s _my_ family,” Isaac counters with a shrug.  “In case you forgot, you guys are pretty much the only thing I’ve got.”

Derek looks back to him guiltily. “Isaac, I didn’t mean—”

“Look, I know we all fight.  We all suck at communication.  We can annoy the piss out of one another.  We butt heads and fight. We’re dysfunctional as hell on several different levels, right down to the kooky uncle.  I get that we’re not even remotely perfect, but we don’t have to be the Waltons to be a decent family. We’ve been to hell and back a couple times now, and we survive because we’re together.  Anyone in this pack would lay down his life for a packmate.  That’s what matters at the end of the day.  I  say that makes us a family in our own right, doesn’t it?”

Derek’s staring at him open-mouthed like Isaac just sucker punched him in the gut.  Isaac looks away, suddenly embarrassed at the confession that sounds insanely cheesy now that he stops to think.  Still, it doesn’t make the argument any less true.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees eventually.  “Yeah, guess we are.”

"So _use_ that, you dumbass,” Isaac urges. “At least give it a shot.  If we’re enough of a pack to endure against alphas, we should be enough of a pack to lend you a little feel-good memory mojo. You’ve just got to stop being a stubborn ass long enough to try it.”

He reaches a hand to the back of his neck to check that the wound’s closed up and ready to go again. 

“Come on,” he continues. “You don’t even have to go back in and deal with Jackson first.  Just focus on the pack and try again out here with me .  If it doesn’t work, we’ll go back to the anger thing. Okay?”

Derek nods and raises a newly healed hand to the base of Isaac’s skull.

_Please let this work. Oh please, please, please or we’re all going to lose our fucking minds with frustration.  Please just let this work._

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Haven’t you memorized that yet?” Peter asks coming to stand in front of Stiles and peering down at the scrapbook in Stiles’ lap.

“Yes, Peter.”

“Of course you have,” he says with a sigh.   “Stiles, I know that book just freaks you out. Why torture yourself?”

“This is who Derek wants me to be like. This is who he wants to fix me to be.”

“That’s because Derek can’t recognize a fucking gift when it’s staring him right in the face.”

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what Peter means by that, so he just reiterates, “When I’m more like _this_ Stiles,” he says, gesturing to the book, “he’s less angry.”

“So you memorize facts about a life you don’t remember and study facial expressions your face has forgotten how to make? All so you can give Derek the illusion that you’re relaxed and happy with him?”

“Derek doesn’t it like it when he can tell I’m confused or afraid,” Stiles replies, “so I should learn not to show it.”

Peter reaches to touch Stiles’ cheek gingerly and turn his face upwards. 

“You’re such an excellent, beta, Stiles,” he says earnestly, “so eager to please.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles replies, blushing at the praise.

“It’s such a shame your Alpha can’t see it,” he adds. 

“Derek has more important—”

“No, Stiles, he really doesn’t,” Peter replies. “There is no excuse for ignoring the promise in a beta like you.  You should have an Alpha who appreciates you as you are, not one who’s trying to reverse such impeccable training.  A beta like you should never have to doubt his value to his Alpha.  Derek should make such better use of you.  He should let you know that you are the best and most precious of all the betas in this pack.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles says again, trying to focus on the humbling praise and ignore the critique of the Alpha in the words.

“If we got away from Derek, if _I_ were your alpha, I would _never_ try to change you.  You would always feel like an asset, never like a burden.   I would make sure of it. I would appreciate how hard you work to please your Alpha and treat you with the care you deserve.”

The unfaithfulness of the words frightens Stiles, and he doesn’t know how to reply.

_What are you saying, Peter? You can’t be suggesting we turn our back on Derek and leave the pack. I must be confused.  We can’t leave.  That kind of disloyalty is unforgivable.  We can’t._

“Would you like that, Stiles? Would you be a good beta for me?”

“Derek is my alpha,” he reminds quietly.

He tries not to shudder at the way Peter’s eyes darken at the comment. 

“Yes, and I’m just your Second,” he replies; the smooth flattery gone out of his voice and replaced with a brusqueness he’s not sure he’s heard from Peter before, at least never directed at him.  “So I guess I’ll just have to make as much use of you as I can manage from _this_ position in the pack.”

He knows better than to pull away when Peter grabs his wrist too tightly and pulls him toward the bedroom. 

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek still can’t believe it worked.  The  burst of familial loyalty that came out of Isaac today, something he never really expected to hear from any of his betas, was enough of a satisfying surprise.  He didn’t dare to consider that the luck would hold and the weak hope that this pack might actually form into some kind of family would prove more than enough to add so much exactness to the memory control.   

But it did.  It does.

_And now we can start to help Stiles._

He drops Isaac at his foster parents’.  Isaac needs to show face there for a while and grab a change of clothes before coming over later to help Derek explain everything to Stiles.  Derek needs to recharge before he tries the memory transfer with Stiles. He doesn’t want to risk being anything less than top shape when they start this.  They’ll start slowly tonight, just one memory, maybe two. 

Derek’s still trying to decide which one to pick.  Half of the times he’s protected Stiles, it’s been against someone who’s now a packmate—Peter at the hospital, Isaac in the jail, Jackson as the kanima—and it’s not going to help anything if the memory just leaves Stiles more confused than at the start.  In the end, he may decide to share a memory Stiles isn’t directly involved in.  That would take a level of confusion off anyway, not making him see himself in a capacity he doesn’t remember, and it gives Derek more moments to choose from.   He could even show Stiles memories of protecting the other betas from the Alpha Pack.  That might the most relatable, meaningful option to start off with. 

He’s so lost in thought that it takes him longer than it should to realize no one’s in the den when he walks into the apartment.  In the next instant, he takes in the sounds coming from Peter’s room—the sounds of muffled whimpers and groans of pleasure—that make Derek so sick to his stomach the only thing that could possibly quell the bile rising in his throat is the immeasurable rage that floods his senses.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He doesn’t remember bursting in here, though the door’s off its hinges. He doesn’t remember shifting to beta form. He doesn’t remember pulling Peter away from Stiles and pinning him to the wall, claws planted deep into his uncle’s chest. Nor does he remember the several blows he seems to already have landed to Peter’s face.

“Please, Derek, please, it was my fault,” Stiles whimpers, and it had to be his voice that brought Derek back to awareness.  He’s naked and trembling, cowering at Derek’s feet as he sobs, “He was trying to help me, Derek. I begged him to help me. I was weak, Derek. I’m sorry. So sorry. It’s my fault, Derek. He kept it from you to protect me.  I shouldn’t have let him take the risk , Derek. I shouldn’t have put myself between my Alpha and Second. I know better, Derek. I know my place. I’m sorry, Derek.  I should’ve offered to you both equally.  Please, Derek, stop, take what you have to from me, but Peter didn’t—”

“What the _fuck_ did you do?” Derek demands of Peter, trying and failing to tune out the onslaught of apologies and offers Stiles is making to try and appease Derek’s wrath.  “What did you do to make him—”

“I didn’t have to _do_ anything, Derek,” Peter replies with a grin.  “That’s the beauty of it.”

“You fucking sociopathic, sorry excuse for a—”

“All I did was allow him to act as he was trained to,” Peter continues, voice smooth and controlled as he gloats, “and he _loved_ me for it, Derek.  He felt more at peace and at home on his knees and in my bed than he’s been _any_ time he’s with you.”

“You shut the fuck up!” Derek commands with a blow to Peter’s jaw that has Stiles sobbing out apologies and begging for mercy with renewed fervor. 

Peter just chuckles.  “Oh, Derek, all your little plans to get him back, your fruitless attempts to fix him, they aren’t worth shit, and you know it.  You really think you can fix that pathetic, broken _thing_ that’s quaking at your feet?  Look at him.”

“So I’m supposed to take advantage of him because he thinks this is normal? I’m supposed to let him think that he exists purely to serve me and fuck me and—”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Peter replies as though it’s the obvious conclusion.  “We both know he needs an Alpha who can really handle him, one who’s Alpha enough to play to his instincts and not be blinded by the weakness of human sentimentality.  You don’t _deserve_ a beta like him.”

Peter shifts, shoving Derek back with a growl. “And when I take him into _my_ pack, he’ll _thank_ me for it; he’ll be more happy and content to serve me than he could _ever_ be with you, stuck trying to mimic the boy you lost because you’re not even Alpha enough to defend your own territory.”

There’s venom in Peter’s words and treachery in his eyes.  No remorse, no regrets, just the fruition of a plan Peter’s been waiting to act on; he’s as desperate as ever to gain the supremacy of being an Alpha at any price—lives, sanity, whatever it takes _—_ and Derek should’ve known better than to think anything was beneath this shell of a man masquerading as human. 

None of the others would ever be convinced to desert and swear allegiance to Peter to start a new pack; they know exactly what the alpha power does to him. Stiles though, Stiles is the _perfect_ candidate—well-trained, easily manipulated, and blindly loyal once he’s been claimed—and then Peter would have the power that comes with the unyielding devotion of a beta to catapult him back to an Alpha position.

_Well, you can’t have him, you sick fuck.  Over my dead body._

 


	7. Chapter 7

Derek’s rage allows his instincts lead the fight for him.  His vision reds out as he and Peter fly at each other, fangs and claws bared.  He doesn’t resurface until Peter’s on his knees in the destroyed den with Derek’s claws at his throat.

 “What are you waiting for?” Peter demands, voice garbled from the blood dripping into his mouth.  “Do it, Derek. Kill the only family you have left,” he goads. “Kill me if it makes you feel better. We both know it’s only a matter of time before someone takes this pack from you. You were never meant to be Alpha. You can’t handle it. You can’t protect them.  You’ll get them killed just like your last pack.  But, come on, slash the throat of your dear old uncle if it makes you feel like less of a failure.”

Derek hesitates, just for a moment, and Peter seizes the advantage.  He goes for the existing gash in Derek’s side, claws plunging so deeply Derek feels when they puncture the lung.  He stumbles under Peter’s renewed onslaught, gasping for breath as the wound tries to heal.  Peter cackles in triumph as he lands enough blows to send Derek to the floor.  He lashes out desperately as Peter lunges for his throat.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The first thing Derek becomes aware of is the uncomfortable pressure of hands against the wound on his side. 

_Peter._

He growls and clambers to his feet as quickly as he can, ready to continue the fight.  He advances automatically on the body that retreats from him, but stops as soon as he recognizes that it’s Stiles, not Peter ,who’s running from him, black tendrils throbbing up his pale arms where he’d been pulling pain from his Alpha.

His eyes sweep the room for the threat of Peter, and it takes only a moment to see that Derek’s final desperate jab at his uncle had found a home in Peter’s heart, the wound of an Alpha healing slowly enough to make it a death blow.  He pulls his gaze away from the carnage and back to Stiles who’s cowering in the corner, babbling incoherent apologies and trying to curl into as small a target as possible as sobs wrack his body.

The sound of sirens spurs Derek into action.  He wraps Stiles in the bloodstained blanket lying on the overturned sofa.  The distraught beta convulses in terror at Derek’s touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stiles,” Derek promises over and over.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stiles doesn’t seem to have enough presence of mind to follow him, so Derek scoops him up in his arms, ignoring the way it pulls at his wounds. They disappear down the fire escape as the deputies burst in the front door. 

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Hey Scott,” Isaac greets as he answers the phone.

“Where are you? Are Derek and Stiles with you?” Scott demands, the panic in his voice making Isaac sick with fear.

“No, Derek dropped me off. I was going over there later. What—”

“Peter’s dead,” Scott replies. “The sheriff’s losing his mind, dude. Some of the neighbors called the cops and reported a disturbance. They busted in there and Peter’s _ripped the fuck apart_. They’re saying it’s an animal attack, but we know better than that. There’s no sign of Derek or Stiles.”

“Fuck, shit, what—you think it’s the last few of the Alpha pack? What the hell do we even—” a beep in his ear signals another call coming in.   Relief washes through him when he sees Derek’s name on the ID. “Hold on, Derek’s calling me now. Give me a sec.”

He switches lines.

"Derek, where are you? Do you have Stiles? Scott called he said Peter’s—”

“Peter’s dead,” Derek finishes for him, voice completely calm and detached.   “Stiles is with me.  I need you to come to the Sitlinskis’.”

“Are the alphas back? What do we need to—”

“No.  There’s no more threat to the pack.  We’re safe.  I need you to come to the Stilinskis’.”

“No more threat? Did you—”

"Isaac, _please_ ,” Derek interrupts, the first sign of a break in his calm, and it honestly scares Isaac more than the previous coldness.  “Just get here.”

“Yeah, of course, I’m coming. I’m on my way now. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He takes Cindy’s car without asking and calls Scott back as he barrels toward the Stilinskis’, driving as fast as he can manage without drawing too much attention.

“Isaac, what the hell? You can’t just hang up on me like that! What the fuck is—”

“Derek’s okay—I think. He knows Peter’s dead. He says the threat to the pack’s been taken care of.”

“And Stiles?”

"Stiles is with him.  Call the Sheriff and Jackson and let them know Derek and Stiles are alive; I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Isaac, wait—”

He disconnects the call, tossing his phone into the vacant passenger seat.  He’s trying to process what the hell could be going on, but the possibilities are endless. Maybe he should tell Scott and Jackson meet them at the house.  Something’s attacked the pack. They should all be together, right?  He reaches for the phone to call Scott back, but hesitates before he presses send.  Derek says the threat’s gone; they’re not in danger, and he didn’t ask for Isaac to bring any backup. It’s also not lost on him that of all the betas Derek called Isaac.

_So is it Stiles? You need me to help you with Stiles? If this thing killed Peter, how much worse is Stiles? Or did you protect him more than Peter and that’s why Peter’s dead? God, Derek what the fuck happened? What the hell’s going on? Why did you call me and not the whole pack?_

He continues to run through the hundreds of horrible scenarios that may have put that tone in Derek’s voice; he may not be able to guess the details, but one thing’s for sure: even if the threat is gone, Derek still thinks something is terribly, terribly wrong, and he’ trying to keep himself together.  He presses harder on the gas pedal and prays whatever’s waiting for him at the Stilinskis’ is something he can handle.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Derek?!” Isaac calls when he bursts in the front door, voice on the edge of panic.

“Here,” Derek replies limping to meet him. 

His broken leg healed at an angle.  He’ll have to tend to it later. There are more important things right now.

“I need you to go take care of Stiles,” he tells Isaac.

Isaac stands frozen in the foyer, gaping at Derek in horror.  Derek knows how he must look, covered with blood—some his, some Peter’s—his wounds still healing, swaying slightly where he stands.  He still hasn’t figured out if the vertigo is from blood loss or a concussion that’s still on the mend. 

"Holy fuck, Derek, what happened to you?”

“I’ll heal,” Derek replies dismissively.  “I need you to go take care of Stiles.”

“Where is he? How bad is he?” Isaac asks, clearly terrified of the answer if Derek’s this bad.

“Physically he’s fine.”

“Well, thank God for that.  What the hell was it? Did you—”

“It was Peter.”

“It was _Peter_!?” Isaac repeats.  “The threat? The thing that apparently sliced you to ribbons was _Peter_?!”

“Yes. I need you to go take care of Stiles.”

_Fuck the rest of it.  Go check on him. I can’t. He’s so damn scared Isaac. I scared him literally out of his mind. He was trying to apologize or beg for mercy or something but it wasn’t even coming out in fucking English. He’s just quaking and whimpering and goddammit I can’t help him. He watched me kill Peter.  I fucking killed another beta in front of him. He doesn’t even understand why.  This is so fucked up. I fucked everything up.  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?_

Tears of anger and frustration and guilt well in Derek’s eyes as he sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands as the dizziness washes over him again.  Isaac drops to the floor next to him, hands on Derek’s shoulders to steady him.

"I’ll check on him,” Isaac promises.  “I know he’s scared, but I’ll talk to him. It’ll be okay.  You didn’t fuck everything up, Derek. Don’t say that.”

At Isaac’s words he realizes his pathetic rambling wasn’t just in his head.   He doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

“I’m sure you didn’t have a choice,” Isaac continues.  “I mean look at you, Peter was clearly out for blood. You were just defending yourself.  Don’t feel guilty you killed him.  You—”

"I _don’t_ feel guilt about that,” Derek replies, coldness in his voice revealing just how true the words are.  “I would cut that son of a bitch down again and not _blink_ , you understand me?”

_I wanted to believe the resurrected incarnation of him was different. I wanted to believe he wasn’t the soulless husk of a man who murdered Laura.  I was wrong. He never changed. He hasn’t really been Peter since the day of the fire._

“Okay,” Isaac replies warily.  “You weren’t just defending yourself, but you’re not exactly the type to kill Peter just for being a smartass.  So then what the fuck happened?” 

“I found them in Peter’s bedroom when I got home,” Derek replies, disgustedly.  “Peter was—”

“Peter’s _bedroom_?”

Derek nods miserably, closing his eyes against the memory.

“God, Isaac the sounds coming out of that room,” Derek lament s, bile rising in his throat.  “I lost it. I don’t remember going in there, but once I had him away from Stiles he was going on and on about being Alpha enough to leave Stiles as he is, to use Stiles like the gift he is. He was planning to use Stiles’ allegiance to get himself back to Alpha.             This entire time Peter’s been—” Derek closes his eyes and can’t finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ, Isaac. How did I not know? How could I have trusted Stiles to him? Because I was too damn naïve to think that Peter would take _full_ advantage of the whole fucked up situation? Because I didn’t like having to deal with Stiles while he was so damaged? I didn’t want to take time to control my temper and fucking _talk_ to Stiles and figure out what he needed so he had to turn to Peter!  He seemed happy enough to stay with Peter so I ran away to Deaton’s to avoid dealing with it.   I was fucking _glad_ Peter was there to help. I walked out the door every day and left a broken, traumatized teenager at the mercy of a sadistic, sociopathic son of a bitch and _never thought twice_!”

Isaac doesn’t reply, just stares at Derek looking nauseated as the sickening truth sinks in. 

When Derek speaks again, the anger’s gone, and he knows he sounds wrecked but he can’t be bothered to care as long as it gets Isaac upstairs to help Stiles, “So, please, just go take care of Stiles.  He’s completely petrified, and me being in the room just makes it worse. I just—how the fuck do I even start explaining or apologizing or—fuck, Isaac what are we going to do?  I don’t know how to even start making this better.”

“I’d say mauling the bastard that did it was a step in the right direction,” Isaac replies. 

“He doesn’t even understand _why_ I did it.  He thinks the whole thing was his fault—which is another fucking problem we have to—”

“Hey,” Isaac interrupts. “Look at me.” Derek obliges.  “You did what a good Alpha should, Derek.  You got him away from Peter. You helped him.  You protected him.  He’s scared and confused, but he’s safe.  We’ll take the time to make sure he understands,” Isaac promises.  “We’ll get him calmed down.  We’ll try to explain it.  You can give him memories to help him understand what Peter was really like.  It’ll be okay.  We’ll figure it out.”

There’s confidence in Isaac’s voice, but the fear in his eyes betrays him.  He’s just as terrified as Derek that there may be no pulling Stiles back from this. 

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles sits curled in a ball on the desk chair where the Alpha deposited him, shaking uncontrollably as he awaits his punishment, the severity of which he can’t even begin to comprehend. Surely if Derek were just going to kill him too he wouldn’t have taken the trouble of bringing Stiles here.  He promised over and over as they left the apartment that he wasn’t going to hurt Stiles, but Stiles can’t think of any other punishment the Alpha could give.

_Unless…_

This is the house that doesn’t smell like pack. This is the place his human father lives. This is a place Derek could easily leave him.

_Oh, please, Derek no. Not that, anything but that. Please, don’t leave me here to fall to Omega. Beat me. Fuck me. Kill me. Just don’t leave me here alone._

By the time the footsteps sound on the stairs, Stiles’ fear of abandonment has completely dwarfed any fear of pain.  He’s waiting on his knees by the door when it opens.

_See Derek. I can be a good beta. Whatever you want you can have. Whatever you do I will learn from. I can be a good beta._

But it’s not Derek who comes through the door; it’s Isaac.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

As soon as he lays eyes on Stiles, Isaac knows without a doubt he’d have ripped Peter limb from limb himself if he’d been in that apartment.  How can _anyone_ possibly look at the broken, defenseless boy kneeling in terror and see only a puppet to be used and toyed with? See only a means to gain power and control?

“Hey, Stiles, it’s okay,” he soothes, repressing his fury at Peter because Peter won’t hurt anyone ever again. 

 _We’re torching the fucking corpse this time.  We’ll scatter the ashes across the whole damn State.  They’ll be nothing left to resurrect._  

Isaac’s anger and need to ensure Peter’s _permanent_ demise can wait; Stiles is what matters now. 

“I know you’re scared, but it’s gonna be okay,” Isaac promises.

“What’s he going to do with me, Isaac?”  Stiles chokes out, tears streaming down his face.

“Don’t cry, Stiles,” Isaac pleads, crouching so their eyes are level.  “Please, don’t cry. He’s not going to do anything. You’re not getting punished. It wasn’t your fault. He’s not mad at you, Stiles, I swear to you.  He sent me up to make sure you were okay.  He doesn’t want you to worry. He doesn’t want you to be afraid. He just wants you to be okay.”

_All any of us want is for you to be okay; we’re just trying to figure out how the fuck to get you there. Especially now._

It seems to be all Stiles can do to continue his shallow breathing and stave off another descent into panic.  He needs something to _do_.  He’s clearly been up here too long stuck in his own head trying to understand what the fuck happened and what happens next.

"First things first; Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Isaac suggests.  _You still smell like Peter, and you’re covered in Derek’s blood for Chrissake._ “Shower and clothes.  Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good, Stiles, that’s good. Come on,” Isaac says, standing and reaching a hand down to help Stiles to his feet.

Though Stiles initially flinches away, he eventually takes Isaac’s hand.  He keeps a death grip on it the whole way down the hall to the bathroom.

“I’m okay,” Stiles says once Isaac gets the water turned on and makes sure there’s soap and towels still here.  “Derek was hurt; you should go help him.”

He wants to argue that he should stay, but he also doesn’t want to crowd Stiles if this is a polite dismissal. Plus he really should go check on Derek; the Alpha needs to know Stiles is stable—stable enough for the moment anyway—as much as he needs the physical wounds to heal.

"Call if you need anything, okay?” Isaac says finally. “I’ll go find some clothes for you and leave them on the bed.”

“Thank you, Isaac.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Stiles. We just want you to be okay. Whatever it takes to help you.”

Stiles nods though Isaac knows he doesn’t fully understand.

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

By the time Isaac comes back downstairs, most of the lacerations are healed up.  The huge gash in his side is finally starting to close up, but it still hurts like a bitch.

 “He’s going to shower and get some clothes on,” Isaac says. 

“Thank you, Isaac,” Derek says earnestly.

_Thank you for answering a phone call like that and then hauling ass over here, for dealing with me while I lost my shit, for stepping in and helping him because I can’t._

“Dude, however I can help,” Isaac replies, shrugging off the gratitude.  “This is going to be a pack effort.”  He glances at Derek’s leg.  “You want me to reset that for you? Or were you going to wait?”

“Might as well get it over with.”

“On three then. One,” he counts before skipping to, “three!”

“Ah, fuck,” Derek hisses. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just gimme a sec.”  He draws a few shaky breaths before the pain lessens slightly, and he can focus on the conversation again.  “Thanks.”

“Sure.  Anything else? How’s your side? That one looked pretty deep.”

“It’s fine. It’s healing.”

Isaac doesn’t look so convinced Derek’s fine, but he doesn’t say anything.   Upstairs the shower turns off. 

“I should get back up there,” Isaac says.  “You should call Scott and Jackson and the Sheriff.  They’re all probably worried sick.  Get yourself cleaned up, too. 

“I will.  I only stopped bleeding about three minutes ago, Isaac.  Give me a minutes.”

"If you need anything—”

“I’m _fine._ Go look after Stiles.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac knocks on the door this time before going in the bedroom.  “Hey, Stiles? Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in the pajama pants and t-shirt Isaac put out.  He’s still trembling a little, but he’s a lot calmer than he was when Isaac first saw him.  Isaac takes a seat next to him on the bed.

“You’re scared,” Isaac says, “and you’re confused.  I want to help you understand so you won’t be afraid, but I’m not going to make you talk about it if you don’t want to. Not tonight.”

There’s a lengthy silence after Isaac’s words.  As he opens his mouth to suggest Stiles just try to get some sleep, and they’ll talk in the morning, Stiles speaks.

“He killed Peter,” he says quietly, tears forming in his eyes again. “If I’d known that was the consequence, I never would’ve let Peter take the risk.”

“You _let_ him take the risk?”

Stiles nods miserably. 

“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Stiles. I don’t understand.”

Stiles draws a shaky breath, working up to the story.  “I was so confused at how this pack works. I couldn’t figure out what Derek wanted.  I needed to feel useful; I was so scared Derek would make leave if I was just a burden to the pack, but I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do to be less burdensome.  Peter said he would help me.  He gave me something simple that I could understand so that I could keep myself grounded while I tried to figure everything out.  It worked, and everything was getting better and then—Peter told me Derek wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t think—Isaac, I didn’t know he would—”

Stiles dissolves into sobs, and Isaac can’t help turning to engulf him in a tight embrace.   The rest of the muddled story is muffled into Isaac’s shoulder as Stiles buries his face there.  Isaac’s burning inside with fury because not only was Stiles subjected to Peter’s abuse, he clearly thinks Peter sacrificed himself for Stiles somehow; he thinks his abuser was protecting him.  He think’s Peter’s death was his fault.  It’s so fucked up Isaac can’t even begin to unravel it tonight.  Stiles is in no state to absorb explanations right now anyway. All he can do is murmur assurances that it _wasn’t_ Stiles fault over and over and pray the message cuts through the misdirected grief.

When Stiles finally cries himself out and starts to drift off to sleep, Isaac moves him under the covers, tucking him in like a child.  Stiles hand catches his as he turns to walk away. Isaac turns back to see Stiles’ eyes are wide open now, panic back on his face.

"Stiles? What’s wrong?”

_What isn’t wrong?_

_"Please_ don’t leave me here,” Stiles begs.  “It’s not pack territory. It’s the human’s, and I—”

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I wasn’t thinking about that,” Isaac replies.

_I wasn’t thinking about how you freaked here your first day back after the alphas. I wasn’t thinking that this place isn’t related to the pack at all in your mind. And you just admitted you turned to Peter because you were trying to be sure you were kept in the pack.  You’ve probably been terrified all night that Derek was bringing you here to leave you._

It’s another reminder that he’ll never be able to predict all Stiles’ fears, another reminder he’s in _so_ far over his head with this. 

“If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

“Derek—”

“He won’t mind.  He told me to look after you, remember? If you want me to stay, it’s okay. It’s not any different than us sharing the living room.”

_And God knows you’re sure to have nightmares now._

“You’re sure?”

"I _promise._ ”

“You can have the bed,” Stiles offers.

“I’ll be fine on the floor, Stiles,” Isaac says, grabbing the pillow discarded by the wall.  “Just get some sleep. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

_I’m not going anywhere._

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Stiles loses count of the number of times he wakes from his nightmares.  Isaac pulls him from the ones that leave him with Peter and Derek’s growls echoing in his ears.  Far worse are ones where he dreams of waking to find Isaac and Derek gone, the house empty, and no matter how he tries he can’t get out of the house to try and find them.  After glancing for what seems the millionth time to check that Isaac’s there, Stiles climbs from the bed to lie next to him on the floor.  This close, he’ll wake if Isaac moves to leave.  He doesn’t know what he’d do to stop Isaac leaving, but at least he’ll know it’s happening.

Isaac stirs in his sleep.

“Stiles? What’re you doing?”

“I keep dreaming you leave,” Stiles replies, embarrassed he can’t stop the pathetic whimper that escapes him; Isaac’s already done so much to help.  “I wanted to be sure I knew if you left.”

“I’m right here,” Isaac assures him, grabbing Stiles’ hand and squeezing tightly.  “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to worry about that.”

"I’m sorry, Isaac. I can’t help it I don’t mean to—”

“It’s not your fault; it’s okay. Come on; I’ve got an idea,” Isaac says, standing and pulling Stiles to his feet as well.  “We’ll push the bed against the wall. I’ll sleep on the inside.  Then there’s no way I leave without you knowing, okay?”

Stiles nods.  _Why are you so good to me, Isaac?_

He drifts to sleep with one of Isaac’s arms tight around his shoulder and Isaac’s other hand clutched firmly in his own.  Even though Stiles knows Derek could come and take Isaac away just as easily in this position as any other, it blankets Stiles with the illusion of security, and, for once, the nightmares subside.    

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, folks, the long(ish)-awaited fate of one Peter Hale, snarky bastard extraordinaire, has been decided, at least for this fic. 
> 
> Whether you cheered or cried/cursed for that bit, I hope you found the update enjoyable enough--is enjoyable the right word when I'm blasting you with angst??--Anyhow thanks so much for reading!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to all y'all who raised cries of triumph when Peter died last chapter :) I know who to call if I ever set out on a quest for vengeance/justice :P 
> 
> Now, here, have some feels with a few bits of fluff:

Isaac’s had to pee for like _twenty fucking minutes_ but, God help him, he can’t bring himself to move and jostle Stiles awake.  Both because Stiles looks maybe the most relaxed Isaac’s seen him since before he disappeared _and_ because once this day starts it’s probably going to be a never-ending stream of complicated. 

When a mockingbird outside the window starts doing an annoying but also rather impressive imitation of a car alarm, Stiles does finally wake, and, ready or not, the day begins.  Isaac feigns sleep, not entirely sure he wants Stiles to know he was _totally_ creeping on him as he slept.  It takes _every_ ounce of control he has not to smile when Stiles, who is clearly awake now, doesn’t move away from Isaac but instead settles in closer, seemingly content to wait here until Isaac’s ready to move.

_If everything else wasn’t so fucked up, this would actually be pretty awesome._

But everything else _is_ fucked up, and they can’t ignore it forever.  So Isaac pretends to wake, yawning widely as he opens his eyes and stretches as much as is possible with two of them crammed in the twin bed. 

“Damn bird,” Isaac mutters.  “Morning, Stiles,” he adds. 

“Morning.”

“Okay, bathroom is a necessity,” Isaac says crawling over Stiles.  “Be right back, okay? I promise.” When he opens the bedroom door, he’s met with the heavenly smell of, “Pancakes?!”

“I was bored,” Derek yells back from downstairs.

The sound of his voice is all it takes to put the tension back in the room.

_Ah, fuck; here we go._

 Stiles doesn’t _totally_ freak, but he visibly tenses.  There’s fear back in his eyes when they meet Isaac’s.

“You don’t have to see him yet if you don’t want to,” Isaac promises.

“You can take Stiles his if he doesn’t want to come down,” Derek calls.  “That’s fine.”

“See?” Isaac says with a hopeful smile.   “No pressure, Stiles. He just wants you to be all right, and, let’s be honest here, pancakes make everything a little bit better.”

_Seriously? It is going to take a helluva lot more than some fucking pancakes to make this better.  Just stop talking, Isaac._

“I’ll be right back, okay? Promise,” Isaac says again, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom.

By the time he’s back, Stiles is standing uncertainly by the door as though he thinks he should go out but can’t quite bring himself to cross the threshold.

“You really don’t have to go down there if you don’t want to,” Isaac repeats.

"I should.”

“You should do whatever you _want_ to do.  If it’s too much to see Derek before I expla—”

“I want to go downstairs for pancakes,” Stiles replies firmly, the fact that the sentence comes out all in word giving away that he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to inform Isaac.

"Okay then,” Isaac agrees. “Two reminders before we go: one, you don’t need to apologize to him because it wasn’t your fault, two, he’s not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Stiles nods but doesn’t believe it.   He’s is trembling again by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs even though he hasn’t even laid eyes on Derek yet.

_So help me, Sourwolf, if you get pissed at yourself or Peter when you see how scared he is and scare him even worse, I will strangle you myself._

But Derek puts up a good front.  He’s forcing a fairly genuine-looking smile and there are pancakes and he’s got flour on his shirt and on his forehead.  There’s a clear message of   _I didn’t know how to seem less threatening but pancakes seemed like a decent place to start. Is it working?_ in the small eyebrow raise he gives Isaac. It is working just a little. Honestly, it’s also pretty damn adorable, not that Isaac would ever in a billion years call Derek Hale adorable to his face.

He can’t resist a small tease, “Some big scary alpha you are.”

“I like pancakes,” Derek replies with a shrug.  “Sue me.”

"You okay back there, Stiles?” Isaac asks, because Stiles has now halted and seems to be glued to the spot in the entryway to the kitchen.

He hasn’t descended entirely into panic, but his eyes are fixed on Derek, flinching just slightly with every move of the spatula.  Derek’s determinedly trying to keep it casual and pretend not to notice.  Isaac takes a step or two back, moving so that he blocks Derek from Stiles’ view.  Stiles’ eyes go to Isaac’s face instead.

“You’re safe,” Isaac assures him.  “I swear.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stiles,” Derek adds, voice adopting the same calm tone as Isaac’s. “I know yesterday was—I mean—I know I scared you, but I’m not going to hurt you.  You don’t have to be afraid, okay?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies automatically in a strained whisper.

“Look, we’ll just go hang out at the table while Derek finishes pancakes,” Isaac suggests. “We’ll all get a little breakfast, and then we’re going to talk so we can all get on the same page.  Nothing to be worried about; nothing to be scared of.  Just a conversation so we can help you understand.” 

Stiles nods, takes the hand Isaac offers, and follows him into the dining room. 

_Here we go._

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac does most of the talking as they try to figure out Stiles’ perspective so they can reconcile both the lies Peter told and Stiles’ alpha-training-induced misconceptions with the actual truth of the situation.  Derek and Isaac share more than one look of guilt as Stiles describes when and why he turned to Peter in the first place.

_How could I be such an idiot? I spent so much time focusing on getting the old Stiles back I didn’t stop to think what this version of Stiles needed.  That kind of transition, from the Alpha Pack’s absolute control and terror approach to a pack with the barest of rules and structure, of course it was too much for him to process. And what did I do? I handed him some peanut butter and crackers and left. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He pulls his mind back from the tangent, stamping down the anger at himself before Stiles can pick up on it.  Luckily Stiles is listening too intently to Isaac’s words, seemingly determined to fucking memorize them if that’s what it takes, to notice that most of Derek’s energy is spent masking his fury and guilt.  His eyes do flicker over to Derek occasionally, the fear Stiles is trying to keep in check showing through despite his efforts.

Isaac’s been running a monologue of all the moments that showcase Peter as a manipulative, power-hungry, psychopath.  There’s more than enough in the words to explain why Derek was justified in killing Peter.  On the whole, it seems to make sense to Stiles who understands pack loyalty and the power of an Alpha in cruel hands.  In comparison, Derek does seem a much better option. 

“Okay, so one last recap for me?” Isaac requests, a tactic he’s been using all morning to make sure Stiles’ comprehension of the explanation is actually the message they want him to get from it. 

Stiles always looks to Derek—well, Derek’s shoes—to give these summations, tense as though the wrong answer will bring down judgment.  It’s another moment when Derek has to be sure and rein in the frustration in favor of nodding encouragingly and smiling as genuinely as possible when Stiles repeats the idea they were hoping he’d glean from the stories. 

“Peter took advantage of a packmate who was confused and afraid.  In this pack, we help out packmates; we don’t take advantage.  So Peter was wrong.   He also wanted to leave the pack, which was wrong.  He wanted to convince me to leave too, which was taking advantage again, and so it was wrong.  He wanted to be an Alpha, but the power is too much for him.  He’s too controlling and too willing to hurt innocent people to be trusted with that kind of power.  If Derek hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve hurt me and the pack and Derek and lots of other people too.”

Yes, Stiles understands.

 _Objectively_ he understands.

“He still doesn’t _really_ get it,” Isaac says wearily when Stiles excuses himself to go to the bathroom.  “ He’s regurgitating what I tell him.  It’s all instinctual pack dynamics and rules to him.   He sees it as your duty and role as the Alpha, not you doing the right thing as Derek, ya know?  Maybe giving him memories will help.”

“Hopefully.”

_Or what I’m planning is going to confuse him even more, and it’ll be for nothing._

“You figure out which one to start with? That death-match the first time you killed Peter might be a little much, maybe you should try—”

“I already know which one I’m giving him.”

"Óh.”

_I wish I didn’t, but I do._

“Not the death-match though?”

“I’m not a _total_ idiot.”

“Just checking.”

“Shut up.”

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, lying awake trying to wrack his brain for which memory could _possibly_ begin to properly explain it to Stiles when not even Isaac—or anyone else for that matter—really understands it, this plan began to form.  He doesn’t like it.  In fact, he fucking _hates_ the idea with every goddamned fiber of his being.  He’s been hoping against hope all morning that Stiles would somehow understand enough through Isaac’s explanations alone so that Derek could convince himself this wasn’t really necessary. 

But as Isaac said, Stiles doesn’t understand.  Not well enough.  He understands enough that he could function in the pack, but not with Derek at any level beyond Alpha-beta dynamics. Derek didn’t spend the past four months praying they’d find Stiles alive to give up any shot at really getting him back now.  He’s already made the mistake once of treating Stiles as though this version will magically disappear when he gets the memories to transfer, but he’s not going to assume that anymore.  He’s facing the fact that maybe the Stiles he knew, the Stiles he grew to know so much better in those first few weeks of fighting the Alpha Pack, _isn’t_ coming back, and _this,_ for better or worse, is Stiles now. 

_And if that’s the case, I’m not going to lose out on him because he’s scared of me.  I’m going to explain it, and I’m going to do it right—what I hope is right anyway—whatever it takes. Because losing him once was enough._

“Dude, why do you look like you’re going to throw up?” Isaac asks worriedly.

_Because I just fucking might._

_I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t want to do this. I definitely planned to die a bloody and painful death before I willingly chose to do this._

But it’s not about _Derek_ and what _Derek_ does or doesn’t _want_ to share.  It’s about _Stiles_ and what _Stiles_ _needs_ Derek to share to understand most effectively and expediently that this kind of violence isn’t something that Derek doles out just because he can excuse it on Alpha instinct.  It’s about letting Stiles see that this isn’t just about the pack dynamics of alphas and betas.  It’s about making him understand that Derek is something besides an Alpha to be feared and obeyed.   He’s a friend or a brother or whatever Stiles wants him to be; this pack can be a _family._ It’s about hoping that even through all this bullshit—even if Stiles never gets back the memories from before he was taken—Derek still has a chance to have whatever bit of Stiles is still left  or can be rebuilt underneath all the trauma.

It scares him just how badly he needs that chance, however slim it might be.  It scares him even more what he’s willing to risk for a shot at getting that chance. 

“Seriously,” Isaac pushes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek replies.  “I’m just—I’m fine.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Derek reminds Stiles.

“I don’t want to be confused, Derek.  Memories always work better than words.”

_So much better than words. It’s so much easier if you can just get in and reprogram. Please, Derek. Because I can tell there must be something I don’t understand yet that you want me to see, and I can’t figure out what it is._

 “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Derek.”

“Okay,” Derek concedes.  “This isn’t—this isn’t going to be a memory of Peter,” Derek continues.  “You understand well enough why I’d attack Peter from my place as an Alpha.  You understand why I could never have let him stay in the pack.”

“Yes, Derek.”

“This is to help you understand why I went farther than that, as _me_ not just mindless instinct of the Alpha, okay?”

“Yes, Derek.”

There’s a twinge of pain as Derek’s claw slices into his neck, he closes his eyes against the momentary pain in his temple as the memory settles.  Stiles searches his mind for it.  Focusing in so he can really examine it.

_There’s a pretty brunette woman lying in in her lingerie on the bed when Derek walks in.  She grins lecherously in greeting._

_“About time, Derek, I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to start this party all by myself.”_

_“Are you kidding? Of course I was coming. This is the only thing keeping me sane these days. I swear I can’t wait to get out of this town.  I’m going to college on the fucking East Coast. I’m so sick of their bullshit rules and constantly talking about my duty to the damn family legacy.   If someone tells me one more goddamned time to listen to what Laura tells me to do…”_

_"Pretty short leash, huh?” she asks with a knowing smile._

_"You have no idea how right you are.”_

_"So if that leash is so short, how do you sneak out so often?”_

_"Basement,” Derek replies, shucking his clothes as he talks._

_"Basement?”_

 “ _It’s—okay basement’s the wrong word at our house—it’s like these huge, creepy rooms and tunnels and shit.  You could seriously get lost down there.”_

_“And I take it some of these tunnels lead out?”_

_Derek nods.  “That’s how I sneak out.”_

_“Huh,” she replies. “Interesting.”_

_"Guess so,” he replies with a dismissive shrug._

_“Enough about your family,” she says, spreading her legs wide.  “This is one place you don’t have to follow anyone’s orders.  Your wish is my command, Derek. You’re in charge.”_

_"God, I love you,” he confesses as he joins her on the bed, “especially when you say shit like that.”_

_"I know,” she replies leaning up to kiss him._

The memory cuts then, and Stiles pulls his focus back to the present and to Derek. The memory’s confusing enough, but the real bafflement comes when he takes in the broken look on his Alpha’s face.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Her name was Kate,” Derek says quietly, not looking at either of them.  “I was sixteen and an idiot.  She found me at my most vulnerable and figured out what I was starved for so that she could use it to gain my trust, and I did trust her.    I trusted her _completely_ and blindly because she made me think that she cared, that she was helping me, and that everything she did was for me.  

She used my trust as a weapon to get my entire pack, my _family_ , she killed my _entire family,_ Stiles.  Burned them alive because she knew enough about the pack and the house and _everything_ through what I’d told her.  It fucking _wrecked_ me.  It’s a guilt that is with me _every_ single moment and it will _stay_ every single moment for the rest of my fucked up life because there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

“Derek, I don’t—what does—”

"When I realized what Peter was doing, what he planned to do, all I could think about was her,” Derek continues through Stiles’ words.  _If I stop I’m never getting through this._   “What my trust let her do to my family and what that did to me—and that’s what Peter wanted to do with you.  He told you he cared; he offered to help you when you needed someone—I should’ve been there and I wasn’t and I’m sorry for that—but Peter _was_ there, and instead of _really_ helping you, he _used_ you.  He wanted your devotion so that he could get you estranged enough from the rest of us to start a new pack and rival or take over this one. 

I know that you don’t entirely understand family yet—that’s okay, you’ll get there—but you’ve seen the other betas.  You know Isaac. You can see that he’s not scared all the time; he smiles and jokes and he’s happy in this pack, you see that, right?  You would want Isaac to stay that way?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies earnestly.

“Peter wanted to take that away, what’s worse he wanted to use _you_ as a means to take that away.  If Peter had gotten what he wanted, you would have watched him take Isaac—Scott and Jackson too—and either kill him outright or do the same unforgiveable things to him that the Alpha Pack did to you.  He would have hurt Isaac. He’d have taken Isaac’s memories so he wouldn’t remember anything good and make him as scared and as confused as you feel all the time, and you would’ve known you were the first step in making it happen. You would have that guilt inside you _every day_ and it would only ever get worse.And I _know_ what that’s like, I know _exactly_ how that guilt tears you apart, because of what Kate used me to do.”

 _I know you understand guilt to some extent.  You always get upset when you think something’s your fault.  Please let this fucking story make some kind of sense._  

 _“That’s_ why I killed Peter, can you understand that?  Because he wanted to hurt you as badly as she hurt me, and I couldn’t stand the thought that he would’ve had you live the same way I do—pissed off and guilt-ridden and _so_ fucked up, Stiles—because he was so hungry for power that he didn’t care who he wrecked to get there. People like Kate, like Peter, who are so selfish and manipulative and power-hungry that they use trust to turn others into unwilling weapons used against people they care about, people like them don’t deserve the space they take up on this planet.  There is no redemption for monsters that twisted.”

“Does that make _any_ sense?” Derek asks, “even a little?”

_Cause that was really my best shot._

Stiles is still absorbing the words, and Derek can’t tell yet if he comprehends. 

_Please God, let it make sense._

_Tell me I didn’t just confess that for no fucking reason. I know the situations are different, but, in my head, they’re the same.  Even if you can’t understand family and pack the way I did, Peter still wanted to use you to take away anything good you’d ever had a chance to experience.  If he’d done it—if he’d made you into anything as close to the wreck that I am—God, I can’t even handle the thought of that, Stiles—I can’t handle the thought of you being like this, like me.  Even if we never get you back entirely to your old self, at least you’ll never wake up every day feeling like this._

_I just need you to not hate me for killing him. I need you to understand why. I need you to get it and not think that I’m like him or worse._

He’s spiraling into some deep and dark anxiety now that the confession is out in the open.   If Stiles doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say, Derek’s pretty sure he’s just going to lose his goddamn mind.  This was the most he could offer in the way of explaining and connecting and trying to salvage something with Stiles after he terrified him out of his mind yesterday.  If this doesn’t work, he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do.

He can feel distress of it all singing in his veins, and, though it’s not anger, he’s still worried it’s enough to set Stiles off and ruin any shot at the memory and words breaking through.  He rises from his seat and moves toward the kitchen, trying to put enough distance between them to keep Stiles from reading the apprehension in his Alpha.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

There’s so much in Derek’s words that Stiles mind reels as he tries to process what Derek is terrifyingly desperate to convey.  Stiles looks to Isaac, hoping for some clue how to react, but Isaac’s clearly flabbergasted as well, in fact, he’s got tears welling up in his eyes as he looks over at Derek.  Stiles can understand why on some level.  The Alpha is humbled; he looks so broken that every instinct in Stiles screams for him to fix it, to help his Alpha.

_And to fix it I have to understand._

So he replays Derek works, carefully examining them.  _He would have hurt Isaac_ Derek had said. _He’d have taken Isaac’s memories so he wouldn’t remember anything good and make him as scared and as confused as you feel all the time, and you would’ve known you were the first step in making it happen._

The idea makes Stiles sick.  To look over at Isaac—Isaac who’s kind and patient and smiles and cooks with Stiles and wakes Stiles from nightmares and holds him like he matters without ever asking for anything to be given back—and think of him broken and cowering at Peter’s feet instead of the way he is now seems wrong.  Even if Peter were to gain the power and be owed Isaac’s allegiance, Stiles wouldn’t _want_ things to be that way.  He’s still figuring out what it means to know what he wants, but he knows he wants Isaac, and he wants _this_ Isaac. 

_And this Isaac still okay and happy and here because Derek stopped Peter._

Because Peter would have hurt the Pack. Peter would have hurt Isaac. Peter would have used Stiles as a way to get what he needed to hurt Isaac.

_But Derek stopped Peter._

He looks again to his Alpha, takes in the sadness again and understands a little more.

More of Derek’s monologue replays in Stiles’ mind, _That’s why I killed Peter.  He wanted to hurt you as badly as she hurt me, and I couldn’t stand the thought that he would’ve had you live the same way I do—angry and guilt-ridden and so fucked up, Stiles_ and the words pair with Isaac’s from days ago _that’s not anger he’s use against you, Stiles. That’s anger he’d use to protect you._

Anger he has because Kate hurt his pack.  Anger that’s always there now.  Anger and violence not because he wants to keep his _power_ ; anger because he wants to keep his _pack._

_Derek stopped Peter because no one stopped Kate._

_This_ is what Stiles was missing when he was trying so hard to understand why Derek would let his happiness be so centered in his betas.  _This_ is why Derek is happier when Stiles doesn’t seem afraid.  He couldn’t see that the reasons Derek has for having a pack are different from the reasons his previous alphas had for having a pack.  They wanted a fighting force; Derek wants a family because he lost his own.

Stiles knows he doesn’t understand all of it to the depth Derek wants.  His understanding of family is limited, and he still doesn’t understand _why_ in hell Derek would do so much to protect Stiles who’s done so little to contribute to the pack dynamic Derek seems to care so much about.  There’s something going on with Derek beyond the the rules and the instincts of an Alpha; he’s not quite like the alphas Stiles has seen before, and he doesn’t seem to want to be.  Stiles wonders if maybe there’s just something about Derek like there’s something about Isaac. Something that has them helping Stiles without a good reason why or an assurance of reciprocation.  It still doesn’t entirely make sense, he still doesn’t understand _why_

But he wants it to.  He’ll figure it out.  Whatever it takes.

Derek rises to leave, walking back toward the kitchen, and Stiles panics for a moment because it seems like maybe Derek’s giving up on Stiles being able to understand.  He isn’t sure how to explain what he thinks he understands, but he needs to say _something_.  He needs to show the words _did_ make some kind of sense, and he can keep working at it until he gets it all. 

“Thank you, Derek,” he says simply, as earnestly as he can, and when Derek turns back to look at him he tries to put as much in the gaze as he can, meeting Derek’s eyes determinedly.

_Look at me, Derek.  I get it.  I understand. I’m grateful, not afraid. I’m happy you stopped it. I’m happy you didn’t let it happen, and I’m sorry no one was there to stop Kate from hurting you.  I don’t understand it all, but I understand enough I think.  See that.  Please see that._

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, relief washing over him at the look on Stiles’ face.        

There’s plenty of confusion and a little trepidation, but the mind-numbing fear seems to be gone.  This wasn’t a cure-all for Stiles’ conditioning on how to interact with an Alpha.  It’s not going to erase what he saw Derek do.  Nevertheless, it seems to have served its purpose as a giant leap in the right direction instead of the usual excruciating baby steps.

“Look, Stiles, I know that was the craziest bombardment of information I could’ve thrown at you, I just—I need you to _get it_. I need you to see _why_ I did it. that it’s not _just_ because I’m an Alpha.”

“I think I understand why, Derek,” Stiles assures him, and for once it’s not the automatic, eager-to-please reply. “Mostly.”

Something as simple as an honest, conversational reply shouldn’t make him this happy, but it does. 

“Good,” Derek replies with a small smile.

“And you can give me memories now, Derek. Memories are easier than words.  I’ll figure out the rest.”

_Yeah I bet memories are easier than words, especially if you’re stuck with me as an Alpha. I was never really so great with words. Pretty sure that’s the longest damn speech I’ve given anyone in my whole life._

“We’ll take it slow, though, okay? Be sure you get rested up and healed between memories.”

Stiles nods his understanding. 

“They don’t hurt much, Derek,” he says so flippantly it breaks Derek’s heart.  “I heal faster than the others I think.”

“All the same. We’ll take it slow.  You’ve had enough to deal with for a while.”

           

 ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 _Holy fucking shit,_ Isaac’s mind repeats over and over. _Holy fucking shit._

He didn’t see whatever memory Derek gave Stiles.  He’s not sure he ever wants to.   It wasn’t hard to put together though.  Kate and Derek were together—whatever the specific details—they were a thing. 

_And then that psycho, pyro, nut job burned his whole family alive. What the fuck?!_

The knowledge changes absolutely everything.  Everything Isaac thought he understood about Derek—his attitude toward hunters, his unyielding hatred of Scott and Allison being ScottandAllison, his rage, his trust issues, _everything_ —must be driven by this.  Since the age of sixteen, every single action spurred not by an anger at _the world_ that he lost his family but by anger at _himself_ that he brought about their deaths.

_Holy fucking shit._

Isaac can barely begin to process it, much less understand how Derek’s lived with it for upwards of six years.  

_God, Derek, how do you carry that every day? Why didn’t you tell us? How do keep from losing your fucking mind trying to deal with that on your own?_

“Isaac?”  Derek says worriedly. “You—uh—okay?”

_You’re asking me if I’m okay? You who hate to talk about feelings or be vulnerable or do any of that gushy sharing and caring king of stuff , you Derek Sourwolf Hale just fucking put all that shit out there and talked about your emotional baggage and your hurt and hating yourself and you’re the one asking if I’m okay?! I should be—I don’t know—baking you cookies, hugging the shit out of you, and driving you to therapy.  Jesus Christ._

But Derek’s watching carefully for Isaac’s reply, the apprehension on his face evident.  Out loud he’s asking if Isaac’s okay, but his eyes are also asking if Isaac’s okay with _Derek_.  Isaac quiets his mind enough to keep his voice even as he replies.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just—processing.”

_I think I’m going to be processing that for like the next decade. What the hell do I even do with that? Are we keeping it between the three of us? Or are we telling the pack? Did Laura even know? How do I start convincing Derek to let go of some of that guilt?  How badly must he want Stiles to be okay to jump to sharing something like that instead of trying the more obvious paths? I didn’t think Derek cared that much about any of us yet._

It makes his head spin.  He needs a distraction, so he stands, grabbing his empty plate and Stiles’.

“I can help,” Stiles offers.

“Only if you want to.”

Stiles follows him into the kitchen where Derek’s already rinsing the pan.  They make quick work of the clean-up between the three of them, talking little as they finish up, each one of them quietly trying to catalog the craziness of the last ten minutes in his head.  It’s Stiles of all people who breaks the silence.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“The scratch is healed I think.”

“We don’t have to start back yet.”

“I _want_ to understand more, Derek.”

“Okay then,” Derek agrees, sitting his coffee on the counter and turning his full attention to Stiles, “but you decide what you want to see.”

“Anything’s fine, Derek.”

“We’ve got time for everything.   I’ll make some suggestions later.  Right now, I want to know what’s most confusing to you? Or just what you want to understand the most?”

Stiles considers a moment or two.

“Can you show me family? If that’s okay, Derek?”

“That’s _perfect_ , Stiles.”

 

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo yeah.....gushing of feels and whatnot :) Hope you enjoyed the update! Thanks for reading! :) 
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> disclaimer: I know at first glance it might seem OOC at first for Derek to share all that, but that's honestly the reasoning I had for why he *killed* Peter and didn't just maul the shit out of him and send him packing because all Derek can see is Kate when he thinks about it. He could either tell the truth to Stiles about why it happened or he could gloss it over and give shitty excuses that would've furthered stiles' view of Derek as a fearsome Alpha. He chose to be vulnerable because it's Stiles, and Stiles means a hell of a lot to him
> 
> so yeah, that was my reasoning....if you were curious...


	9. Chapter 9

When the first memory didn’t spark any others, Derek didn’t let himself get too worried.  When the second and third didn’t either, he counted his blessings and convinced himself they just needed more time.  Now, it’s nearly sunset and still there’s no sign the amnesia will wear off any time soon. 

He’s officially worried.

Even without Stiles regaining any of his own memories, the ability for him to share Derek’s still changes everything.  Stiles is incredibly eager to get them and generally all smiles for a good ten minutes after they’re shared.  They spent the better part of the afternoon trying to explain family and share the pack dynamic. Derek hopes he’s not overselling it by showing the highlight reel, but overall the pack really is pretty good these days.  Jackson’s personality will be the most confusing.  Scott’s going to have a hard time remembering that this Stiles isn’t the same kid he’s known half his life.  Lydia and his father might be a different obstacle altogether. Regardless, after all Stiles has been through, it’s not like the bar is very high anyway.  He seems excited at the prospect of getting to be in a pack like this one.   Overall, Stiles just seems happy, the happiest he’s been in the week they’ve had him back.

_Given that when he woke up this morning he was just a terrified ball of confusion and misery, I’m going to call it a good day._

He knows he thought too soon when he phone rings, and it’s the sheriff.  He steps out on the back porch to get out of earshot—well, more easily tuned out anyway—leaving Isaac and Stiles to their game of checkers.

“Sheriff?”

“How is he?”

“Better,” Derek replies, “a lot better.  We explained everything. I gave him a few memories.  He’s doing good.”

“But it’s not triggering any reversal of the amnesia?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“I need to see him.”

“Sheriff, we’ve talked about—”

“Derek, I don’t care if I just have to swing by the house and creep in the window for five seconds; it’s been a week. I walked into the apartment where he was supposed to be safely awaiting the return of his memory to find blood everywhere and a mangled corpse on the floor. I just—I need to _see_ he’s okay.”

Derek wants to refuse the request. It’s been a good day—hell, a _great_ one compared to the clusterfuck he was expecting—and he doesn’t want to push too hard. Irritatingly, the desperation in the sheriff’s voice is wheedling through his resolve.  Besides, the man has a point.  He’s no doubt been worried sick all week, scared to death yesterday, and now he’s graciously bunking at the McCalls’ because they needed the Stilinski house.  Still, if Derek has to pick between Stiles’ peace of mind or his father’s it’s no contest.

“I’ll talk to him,” Derek offers.  “I’ll see where he thinks he’s at with it.  If he thinks he can control the shift with us here, I’ll call you back.  If not, you’ll get a picture message from Isaac, and that’s the best I can do.  Stiles comes first.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I didn’t mean— _I know you’re his Dad, but you’re not the only one trying to take care of him—_ I’ll let you know, okay? We’ll see.”

He disconnects the call and runs a hand down his face, collecting his frustration and calming completely before he walks back in.        

“What’s up?” Isaac.  “Everything okay?”

“The sheriff’s just—having a hard time with it.”

“Understandable.”

“Stiles, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be _entirely_ honest.  There’s no wrong answer.  I just want to know the truth, okay?”

“Yes.”

Derek can feel a smile playing at his lips in response to the triumph that Stiles’ reply doesn’t have Derek’s name tacked onto it like a title.  It’s another seemingly small but nevertheless significant change of the day that Stiles _believes_ Derek now when Derek says he doesn’t have to do it; he _believes_ Derek doesn’t care.  He might not _understand_ it completely, but he trusts Derek not to lie to lay traps. 

“If your dad—if the sheriff—came here, could you control the shift?” Derek wonders. “Isaac and I would stay; it wouldn’t be you alone with him, but it’s okay if that’s still too much.”

As frustrated as he is that the Sheriff’s rocking the boat with this, Derek is quietly hoping Stiles isn’t opposed to the idea.  He’s held the shift in front of him once before—until Scott left at least.  Derek knows the sheriff and Stiles have always been close.  It’s been just as hard on him to keep his distance as it’s been for the pack to deal with Stiles directly—maybe harder.   If Stiles can handle this, it just might be good for both of them, especially since they’ve been trying to teach Stiles about family all day.

“I can control the shift in front of humans when I need to,” Stiles replies.

“Without hurting yourself?”

“I think so. I can keep something close by just in case and—”

“No,” Derek says firmly. “If you shift, Isaac and I will stop you.  I don’t want you controlling the shift with pain anymore.”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies, title slipping back in now he’s been given a direction.

_Shit, little less authority there next time. Should probably work on that._

“We’ll teach you to control it without the pain as soon as we get a chance,” Derek promises, “but there’s not time for that right now.  Just try to keep it at bay, and trust me and Isaac to get you back in control if you shift.  You trust us to do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  He wants to come here tonight.  He wants to see you—to see that you’re okay. Would that make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“You understand he’s not a threat even though he’s not pack?”

“Yes. I understand.”  Stiles hesitates a moment before adding, “I didn’t hurt him the first time.”

“I know, I just wanted to be sure. If it stresses you out, we can wait.”

“I can do it, Derek,” Stiles says determinedly. 

“You sure you _want_ to though?”

“He’s my family,” Stiles replies.  “Right?”

“Damn,” Isaac replies.  “Can’t argue with that, can you, Derek? Point to Stiles for that one.”

Stiles looks confusedly at Isaac, unsure what the statement means, but he smiles along with Derek and Isaac anyway. 

“I’ll let your dad know it’s okay.  He’ll call before he comes up to the door so he doesn’t catch any of us off guard.”

_Please don’t let this fuck up the day.  I’d really like for just one to finally go out on a good note._

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“My neck is healed again, Derek,” Stiles says tentatively. 

He always tells Derek, but he can’t quite bring himself to _ask_ for the memories.  He knows it tires Derek.  He doesn’t want his Alpha at any disadvantage, not on his account, and _especially_ not Derek. Derek’s going to be a good Alpha to Stiles. Derek protects his pack.

_But if you can spare the energy, I do want more memories.  Please, Derek.  As many as you’ll share._

So far it’s been mostly images of Derek when he was younger, enjoying time with his family before they died.  It makes Stiles sad to know they’re gone now. It makes him hope this pack will be that nice, for him and for Derek.  He’s seen glimpses of moments with the current betas too—eating together at Scott’s house, training in the woods somewhere—and he can’t quite believe he’s lucky enough to be taken in by a pack like this.   He’s trying to keep his optimism in check, bad things will always happen, but he can’t entirely suppress the hope that’s building inside of him.

“Got something in mind?” Derek asks, easily pleased again that Stiles wants more memories, yet another reason Stiles will keep at it. “What d’you want to see?”

He’s seen memories of Derek’s family, seen Derek’s father, but now he’s about to meet his own and he has nothing but the description in the scrapbook Lydia made, the picture that accompanied it, and the photos he’s only glanced at that are scattered around this house.

“Maybe my dad?” he asks hopefully, but when Derek’s face falls he backtracks quickly. “Or anything, Derek.” _More pack memories are good. Anything’s good. I just like having good memories in my head. Please don’t say no because I picked the wrong one._  “It was just an idea. I thought tactically it might—”

“The request is fine, Stiles,” Derek replies, “but it might be a little disappointing. I don’t have many memories of you with your father.  He didn’t even know you were running around with werewolves until after you disappeared.”

"Oh.”

“Here, I’ve got this one,” Derek offers.  “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

_A lacrosse game has ended, and Derek’s watching from a distance as the crowd disperses. He finds Isaac, then two people Stiles doesn’t recognize, next Scott, and then Stiles.  Stiles’ father comes straight for him, patting him on the back as Stiles moves to follow his teammates off the field._

_"Proud of you, kiddo,” his father says. “You did good.”_

_"I didn’t even play,” Stiles replies irritably._

_"Well, you warmed that bench like a pro.”_

_"Gee, thanks,” Stiles replies with a roll of his eyes._

_"See you at home?”_

_“Yeah, sure.  Bye, Dad.”_

Derek’s right, it’s not much, but it’s enough to see the kind, familial bond. It calms his nerves enough that he’s certain he can keep from hurting the man when he gets here. 

“Like I said, it’s not much,” Derek repeats apologetically.

“It’s good, Derek. It helps. Thank you.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles tenses when the headlights swoop through the window of the den as the sheriff’s truck pulls in the drive.

“Nervous?” Isaac asks.

Stiles nods.  “I won’t hurt him though.  I’m okay.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

They follow Derek to the door when the Sheriff knocks.  Derek opens the door slowly, and the Sheriff walks in smiling uncertainly.  The relief of seeing Stiles safe and in one piece is evident his face, but he doesn’t relax completely.  He’s got a big brown bag of what smells like burgers and fries in one hand and the other raised in a show of peace.

“Hey, Stiles,” he greets with a smile. 

“Hello.”

“I—uh—I know this doesn’t mean anything to you really, but I brought—”

“Curly fries,” Stiles finishes for him, “from Caroline’s.” 

“What did you say?” the sheriff asks, dumbfounded.

“Curly fries from Caroline’s Diner,” Stiles repeats, like he’s reciting something off a paper, “and burgers, but you’re supposed to be eating veggie burgers and carrots and—” Stiles breaks off the sentence and looks to Isaac and Derek.  “How do I know that? I didn’t—but then—it just—I don’t know how I know that.”

“Stiles, you remembered something!” Isaac exclaims, practically tackling Stiles with a hug before he thinks better of it, but Stiles doesn’t flinch away; he hugs back.

“Dude, after getting memories all day and it never triggering any of your own, I was kind of scared it was never going to work,” Isaac admits as he breaks the embrace.

_It was scaring the shit out of us, dude, but it’s okay now.  You remembered something! Which means it’ll happen again eventually. Which means we might just get you back after all._

“Do you remember anything else?” Derek asks.

Stiles pauses a moment before looking back at the sheriff and saying, “We go to Caroline’s all the time—ever since I was young—and they know our names.  I get chocolate milk.”

 “Yeah,” the sheriff confirms, tears shining in his eyes as he beams at his son. “Yeah, Stiles, you’re right.”

“I don’t remember anything specific,” Stiles continues, “just being there.”

“That’s great though,” Isaac says encouragingly.  “That means more might come back.  Maybe it’ll take some time, but some more might come back.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, looking uncertainly from Isaac to Derek, “but I don’t know how to make it happen again. I don’t know if I can.”

“That’s okay,” Derek assures him. “Don’t worry, Stiles. Whatever you get back we’ll be happy for and whatever you don’t we’ll help you fill in the gaps, okay?”  

“Yes.”

“So—uh—you kids hungry?” the sheriff asks.  “I don’t have to stay and eat with you, but I wanted to bring something.”

“Good thing you did,” Isaac says.  “Since apparently curly fries were the magic memory.”

“Well, I did read that olfactory memory is supposed to be fairly strong,” the sheriff replies. 

_Yup, that’s where Stiles gets it. Of course you’ve been researching memory loss and recovery, probably incessantly.  Also, if this is what it takes, we’re going to have him sniffing the whole damn town tomorrow._

“If it was going to be anything, curly fries were a good bet,” the sheriff continues.  “It used to be practically a whole food group for you, kiddo.”

Stiles doesn’t seem sure if the comment is directed at him or not or how to reply if it is, so he glances back to Isaac who responds for him.  

“Good call, then, sheriff, and definitely thanks for the food.”

“No problem.” He offers the bag to Derek who’s closest to him.  “You boys should go eat before it gets cold.”

“Thanks.”

“Glad you’re doing better, Stiles,” the sheriff adds with a strained smile, giving Stiles one more lingering look before he turns to walk out the door.

“Derek,” Stiles blurts just before the door shuts.

“Yeah?”

“I could keep the control,” Stiles promises, “if you want him to stay.”

The sheriff’s paused on the porch outside, and he looks so fucking hopeful at the prospect of getting to stay a while with Stiles that it makes Isaac want to bawl like a two-year-old.

“That’s your choice, Stiles,” Derek replies. “I don’t mind either way.  Do _you_ want him to stay?”

Stiles pauses a moment, searching Derek’s face to see if there’s a right and wrong answer to the question.  Finally, he nods.

“Yes, Derek. If that’s okay.”

“Fine by me,” Derek replies, opening the door wide again.  “Sheriff?”

“Yeah,” the sheriff relies eagerly. “Yeah, I’d love to. Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles smiles in reply.  It’s too forced, but the intent is still there.

_He’s getting there. We’ve got a long way to go, but he’s getting there._

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They eat in the den while they catch the last half of the ball game.  The sheriff— _Dad, you call him Dad—_ seems thrilled to be here.  He keeps glancing over at Stiles, watching him.  Stiles tries not to let it bother him, focusing on ignoring the gaze by watching the game and keeping his pulse calm. 

 “So how’re the fries?” Isaac asks, breaking the silence that’s fallen.  “Better than pancakes?”

“No,” Stiles replies.  He looks over to the sheriff— _Dad—_ and adds politely, “but they’re very good. Thank you.”

It’s odd to show a human such courtesy, but he’s seen in the memories that they aren’t viewed the same way in this pack as with the alphas.  There were humans in Derek’s memories of family and pack.  There are positive memories of the human girl, Lydia.  Stiles himself was human before the alphas turned him.  They’re given the same respect as werewolves it seems, though there’s still some level of distinction between pack bonds and the friendship—family?—with the humans.  He still needs more memories or explanations before he fully understands it, but it’s clearer than it was. 

“You’re very welcome, Stiles,” his father replies.  “I’m glad to do it.”

Silence falls in the room again.  The sheriff seems eager to keep talking, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say.  Stiles surely doesn’t know what to say, so he focuses on the fries, which _are_ insanely delicious; they’re _almost_ as good as pancakes, except, pancakes Stiles can cook and make Derek smile. Pancakes make Derek and Isaac happy; pancakes still win, for now.

_I bet I could figure out how to make these for us, too. I wonder if they’d like that._

“How much do you know about me?” the sheriff asks finally, pulling Stiles from his hypothetical fry-cooking plans.  “You know who I am, don’t you?”

Stiles nods. “My dad,” he replies, the title foreign on his tongue.  “John Stilinski.  Aged 40.  Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Single father. We were very close before I disappeared,” he recites a summation of the facts Lydia wrote in the scrapbook.  “You come to lacrosse games even when I sit on the bench,” he adds, thinking to Derek’s memory, “and say you’re proud of me.”

"Yeah,” the sheriff confirms, “That’s right.” 

There are tears welling up in his eyes again, but Stiles doesn’t really understand why; maybe because he’s not like the boy in Derek’s memory?

_I don’t know how to be him yet.  I’m still learning._

His father clears his throat and when he speaks again the sadness is mostly gone from his voice.  “You didn’t always ride the bench though,” he says.  “You won the state championship game.  Has Derek had a chance to show you that?”

“No.”

“I can’t,” Derek replies apologetically.  “I wasn’t there until after. I don’t have a memory of it.”

“Oh,” the sheriff replies, looking disappointed.   “Well, it was a helluva game.  You were fantastic, Stiles.” His face brightens as he wonders, “You can take memories, can’t you? Could you take it from me and then—

“Derek, please, I don’t need the memory. I don’t need it. It’s okay,” Stiles counters hurriedly. “Please.”

_Don’t hurt the human. Please don’t hurt him, not for me. Don’t take his memories because of me. Please, please, please._

Unbidden memories flood to the surface of his mind, terrible things he’d forgotten or blocked.

_He can feel the Alpha’s claw sink deep into his still-human flesh and the anguish in his mind as the Alpha’s control shreds through his memories.  He’s sure it will kill him this time, sure he can’t take anymore; he’s thought—hoped?—that so many times now yet still they keep hacking away at him, allowing him to recover momentarily from the pain to feel a little more empty, a little more hollow, a little more confused every time, aching mentally and physically, healing just enough for the next round of the torturous process._

" _Not such a brazen little smartass, now, are we, Stiles? You hear the pathetic little sounds you’re making? You’ll be begging us to stop soon.”_

_"Fuck off,” he replies angrily through teeth gritted against the pain._

_“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your new Alphas?”_

_"You’re not my alphas. You will never be my alphas. Over. My. Dead. Body.”_

_"That can be arranged,” the alpha taunts._

_He plunges a claw mercilessly down into Stiles neck.  As the pain sears through his mind, hacking away at precious memories, he prays to black out again, but this alpha seems to know Stiles’ limits.  It pulls away just as he’s reaching the edge of the blessed blackness. The pain doesn’t lessen, just throbs as he’s released and crumples to the floor, cradling his head in his hands._

_"You’re not leaving here, Stiles.  No one is going to save you from this.  Not Derek, not any of those other pathetic mongrels he’s trying to make a pack of, no one,” the alpha asserts, accentuating the taunts with blows far too fast for Stiles to dodge.   “It’s just you and us, and we’re going to keep at this until you’re a good little beta like you should be.” Stiles feels a rib break under the force of the next kick.  “Or until it kills you. Whichever comes first. You understand?”_

_He wants to beg for mercy. He wants to shriek in pain and not hold back. He wants to cry out desperately for help until Scott or Derek or Dad prove these monsters wrong and come to save him.  Instead, he bites back the weakness and braces for the coming blows._

He returns to the present without warning.  Someone’s shaking his shoulders, and he’s lashing out before he can stop the impulse, the anger and fear from the memory still surging through him.  There’s a loud crash as he sends his attacker flying back into the coffee table which collapses under the weight.  Too late he realizes it’s Isaac, not an attacker.  He backs away from Isaac, from Derek who’s standing between Stiles and his breakable, human father, whimpering low in his throat as he takes in what he’s done. 

“Isaac, I didn’t mean to; I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to, Derek, please, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek soothes, still braced protectively in front of the sheriff.   “You had a flashback. It’s okay.”

“Help me shift back, Derek, please.”

“Try on your own,” Isaac says.

“Isaac, now’s not the time for—”

 “Let him try,” Isaac insists, cutting off Derek’s protest.  “He’s already got more presence of mind than he usually does.  He’s retreating not attacking.  Come on, Stiles,” he urges.  “Breathe deep, and focus on something that matters to you.  Just try. If it doesn’t work, Derek’ll help you.”

He sucks in a shaky breathe or two, trying to slow his pulse. 

_Something that matters. Something that matters._

_Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family._

He can feel himself shifting back slowly.

“Good, Stiles,” Derek encourages.  “That’s it. That’s perfect. Keep going.”

_Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family._

 He feels the moment he’s completely back to human form, the red tint in his vision fades.   He closes his eyes gratefully as relief washes over him so completely that his knees buckle and he slides down the wall to the floor. 

“Stiles?” Derek says, voice slightly alarmed.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Isaac asks as he moves toward him. “Are you—”

Stiles opens his eyes, smiling up at Isaac, voice on the verge of giddy laughter as he replies, “I did it.”

Isaac grins down, offering Stiles a hand up.  “Yeah, you did.  You were fucking awesome!”

He looks to Derek who’s smiling proudly, smiling because of _him_ , and the giddy laughter can’t be held back anymore.

“I did it without pain,” he says happily to Derek, though he knows he’s stating the obvious.  “I can control it without pain!”

“That was fantastic, Stiles,” Derek compliments.

“We told you it would get better,” Isaac reminds Stiles.  “You’re gonna get better, Stiles. See? A little bit at a time.”

"Maybe I should go,” the sheriff suggests quietly.

'“No, I can control it now. This control is better. It’s more stable I can—” Stiles pauses, and then looks quickly to Derek, realizing he might’ve spoken out of turn.  “Unless you want him to go, Derek,” he adds quickly.

'“You’re the one who makes the call, Stiles,” Derek replies with a shrug.  “Stay as long as you want, Sheriff.”

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac’s pretty exhausted so he more than understands why Stiles is dozing off where he sits, but Stiles is trying hard to stay awake as the night wears on.  It’s kind of adorable really.  He’s still radiating happiness, and it’s a nice change to the constant tremors Isaac got too used to all week.  Nevertheless, it’s been a long day for everyone, and tomorrow’s going to be more of the same; that flashback may have been a catalyst to something better, but it was still a reminder that getting back some of these memories isn’t going to be a walk in the park.

“I think I’m about to crash,” Isaac informs the room at large, testing the waters for Stiles’ reaction and if he’ll want Isaac with him again tonight.

“Are you leaving?” Stiles asks, eyes worried.

“Not unless you want me to.  Why? You want me to crash in your room again?”

_Say yes, because otherwise I’m going to be up half the night worrying about you anyway._

He looks from Isaac to Derek, clearly trying to decide if he’s allowed to want this before admitting, “Only if you don’t mind,” he glances back to Derek to add, “and if it’s okay.”

“I don’t mind,” Isaac assures him.  “Derek doesn’t either, do you?”

“Nope.”

The sheriff clearly has a thought or two about this arrangement, but he’s keeping it to himself for the moment.

_Good call, dude.  He needs me, and I don’t give a fuck what you think.  Stiles doesn’t either.  You can take it up with Derek if you’ve got a problem._

“Why don’t you two grab the double bed in the guest room,” Derek suggests. “I’ll take the twin for tonight, and we’ll switch the beds tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” Isaac says.  “Good with you, Stiles?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“We don’t mind, Stiles,” Derek reminds. 

“Of course not,” Isaac agrees.

_We’re still just excited you’re having semi-normal conversations with us.  A little rearranging of the furniture and sleeping arrangements is nothing._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I’ll walk you out,” Derek offers once Stiles and Isaac disappear down the hall.  “Tomorrow I’ll talk to Stiles about you moving back in.”

“You don’t think it’ll be too much stress on him?” the sheriff wonders, rising and following Derek to the door.

“If he can keep the shift from happening and we’re careful to keep one of the pack here at all times, he should be fine, and you should be safe enough.”

“Looks like Isaac doesn’t plan on going anywhere any time soon,” the sheriff comments.

"Isaac’s been good with him.”

“Is it the best idea to have him share a bed with someone after what he’s been through?

He trusted Peter too readily; that’s a mistake he’ll have to live with.  Nevertheless he trusts Isaac completely. Isaac’s not Peter.  Isaac’s the only reason they’ve been able to make it as far with Stiles as they have.

“That’s the only thing that keeps him from waking up sobbing from nightmares,” Derek replies unforgivingly.  “This isn’t a text book case.  We’re rolling with the punches.  He has nightmares; he’s scared to be alone.  He’s still a little scared of me, so it falls to Isaac. He’s been great with Stiles. If anyone’s got any inkling of what Stiles has been through, it’s Isaac. There’s no one I trust more with him.”

The sheriff wants to keep arguing, but he doesn’t, which is a fairly wise decision on his part.  Derek’s not ignoring the fact that the man is Stiles’ father, but, right now, Stiles is counting on _Derek_ to take care of him.  Derek’s going to do whatever it takes and whatever Stiles wants, perceptions and parental, outsider opinions be damned.          “Just—take care of him,” the sheriff says finally.

 “We will.”

“Keep me updated. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Of course.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You won’t leave without telling me?” Stiles asks quietly, just on the edge of sleep as he lies next to Isaac.

He wouldn’t have minded the smaller bed again.  It left him no choice but to be as close as he could to Isaac.  He’s not sure how much liberty he can take with that now.  The small space separating them feels wider than it should.  He knows he’d wake if Isaac left the bed, but he worries anyway.

“I won’t,” Isaac promises. “I’m right here, okay?” 

He finds Stiles’ hand in the dark and scoots just a bit closer.  Stiles can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face at the unhesitant reassurance.

 _Why are you so good to me, Isaac?_ he wonders for what seems the billionth time.

With Isaac’s promise to stay easing the greatest trouble on his mind, Stiles drifts off to sleep still washed pleasantly in the residual giddiness of the day—making such progress understanding his Alpha, being shown family, having Isaac and Derek assure him he has a place in the Hale Pack family, getting a few memories like Derek and Isaac were hoping, controlling the shift without pain—and decides if every day is like this then he’s going to be the happiest beta in the world.  

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Isaac wakes to the feeling of Stiles’ hand finding his again after they parted in sleep.  He opens his eyes and Stiles smiles guiltily.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Isaac replies.  “You sleep all right?”

“Yes.” 

“You want to get up? We can go make breakfast.  Your dad’s got bacon and eggs and everything in the fridge.”

_Either you used to exaggerate his heart issues or the sheriff shot it all to hell once you went missing._

“You can go back sleep if you want to,” Stiles offers.  “I can make it.”

“Nah, I’m not tired anymore; I’ll help.”

They head out to the kitchen.  Derek’s still asleep, but probably not for long once they get going. 

“Will Scott and Jackson come today?” Stiles asks as he starts up the frying pan.

Isaac’s got another pan full of eggs on the burner next to him. 

“I dunno,” Isaac answers. “D’you want them to?”

Stiles nods.  “I think I could do better this time.”

“Better this time?”

“When they came for lunch before, I wasn’t very good at being pack yet.  I think I could do better this time.”

“Stiles, you’re doing fine. Stop worrying so much about fitting in.  None of us did when we first joined in either.”

_This whole pack being a family thing is a pretty damn new development.  The only thing that could’ve gotten us all working together was a huge threat like the alphas, and the only thing that cemented it was the search for you in the midst of it.  You’re not that behind on the dynamics._

“You didn’t?”

“No,” Isaac assures him.  “I was kind of an asshole, and Jackson was _definitely_ an asshole, and Scott was kind of pissed he had to be here in the first place.  You’re already way better than we were at first.  You’ll adjust soon enough, especially now that your memories are coming back.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, just takes in the words as he plops bacon down in the pan.

“If you think you’re good to handle them dropping by, I’ll let Scott and Jackson know,” Isaac offers.  “They’d be glad to see you’re doing better.”

"I could make lunch,” Stiles adds. “If Derek wants.”

“You know you don’t always have to wait for Derek’s blessing on everything.”

“He’s the alpha,” Stiles replies simply with a confused look. 

“I know but, generally, unless Derek says _not_ to do something, everything’s fair game.”

Stiles looks a little apprehensive at the idea.  They’re fringing on the amount of freedom he can fathom, so Isaac backtracks to be on the safe side.

“But if it makes you more comfortable to ask, that’s fine,” Isaac says.  “Derek doesn’t mind you asking anything.”

Stiles nods again, taking in the words and focusing back to the task at hand.  He’s completely fine for the next two minutes.  He’s even humming softly to himself, which has Isaac grinning.  Then his hand goes slack and the fork he’s been turning bacon with clatters into the pan.

“Stiles?” Isaac asks.

His eyes are glued, unseeing, to the cabinet in front of him.  It’s the same look he got during the flashback yesterday.

_Oh, fuck, please be a good memory._

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Derek! DEREK, NO!!!!! Derek, please!!! Derek!!!!!!”

Derek bolts awake at the sound of Stiles’ wails, takes the stairs in one long bound, and sprints into the kitchen, heart pounding at the terror of the endless horrific scenarios that run through his mind.  When he takes in the room, there’s no visible threat, just Isaac holding Stiles by the shoulders trying to calm him down.

“Look,” Isaac says. “Look, Stiles. He’s right here. See? He’s fine.”

He’s completely unprepared when Isaac reaches back with one hand to pull Derek forward and transfer Stiles to his hands.  Stiles holds on like his life depends on it and sobs into Derek’s chest.  Derek hugs back automatically, looking over Stiles’ head for some clue from Isaac.

“Flashback or memory or whatever? I think? He was fine a couple seconds ago, and then he zoned out and snapped back screaming for you.”

“Stiles, what was it?” Derek asks. “What did you see?”

“You were dead, Derek,” Stiles sobs. “You were poisoned. There was monkshood in the bullet and you were dead on the floor and I couldn’t get you to wake up and—”

“Shhh, it’s okay.  I’m okay. I’m here,” Derek soothes.

_I am a fucking horrible person for finding so much reassurance in the fact that he’s this distraught at the idea of me dead._

“It’s just a memory, Stiles. I’m okay now. I wasn’t dead. You saved me—you and Scott.”

“We did?”

“Yeah, you did.”

As Stiles calms, Derek sees the moment he realizes that he’s holding tightly to Derek and isn’t sure that’s allowed. He loosens his grip just slightly.

“Derek, I’m sorry; I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Derek promises before Stiles can panic and let go completely.

_I honestly don’t even know the last time I hugged someone.  Laura I think? I’m probably overdue._

 “You were scared. It’s okay.”

He tightens his embrace just slightly in what he hopes comes across as reassurance and not possessiveness.              Judging by the way Stiles’ grip tightens again, he got the right message out of it and doesn’t plan to let go just yet.  His forehead rests against Derek’s chest for a moment, the way he’s only seem Stiles relax into Isaac.  Derek can’t help but mentally celebrate in the victory against Stiles’ conditioning that this marks, but it’s not the moment for him to be smiling.  Stiles is still freaking out.

“I’m sorry, Derek, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Stiles mumbles. 

“It’s not your fault. I don’t mind.”

“It seemed real, and I could _feel_ it.  I could feel _exactly_ how I was when it was happening—scared and worried and panicked and—and it didn’t go away when I snapped back and I couldn’t calm down and I—”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Derek says. “It’s okay.”

_That explains the aggression last night. You get blasted with the emotions as you’re blasted with the memory?_

“It was just a memory, a bad moment of a memory, but it all turned out okay.”  He pauses before asking, “Can you remember how it ended?”

“No.”

Derek wonders if Stiles really can’t or if he just doesn’t want to find that memory anymore. He’s not going to push it.

“You want me to show you?”

“Yes. Please.”

The night at Deaton’s seems like another lifetime ago.  He thinks back on the memory, wishing now he could filter out the death threats and rough handling.  He feels like it should come with a disclaimer, but he doesn’t quite know what to say that’s a good enough excuse.  There’s not one really.

_I just kind of stay mad at everything.  It’s how I work.  And you could get under my skin like nobody else. It’s not—you’re not going to understand, but things used to be different with us.  How do I make you see that?_

“Stiles, I—uh—this is before you were pack,” Derek reminds him, “and I was kind of poisoned and stressed and dying,” _cheap excuse, Hale. Suuuuch a cheap excuse._ “So if I seem angry, it wasn’t your fault back then either, okay?”

“Yes.”

_Please don’t come out the other side of this scared of me again._

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

By the time Scott and Jackson arrive for lunch, Stiles has seen Derek survive the wolfsbane bullet; he’s watched Derek protect him from the kanima and watched himself support Derek when the toxin took hold; and he’s seen the two of them fight together against the alphas.  It’s a lot to absorb, especially on top of the other memories that flare in his mind without warning—everything from that terrifying vision of his new Alpha dead on the floor to the mundane location of Easy Mac in the McCall pantry—but Stiles will happily endure the bad memories for the sake of having the good ones.  They take up the room in his head that used to be filled with Alpha Pack mantras and confusion and fear.  He likes having good memories to mull over while he goes through the day; it’s so much better than the cloud of anxiety that usually hangs over him.

“Are you humming Bon Jovi?” Scott asks as he walks in the kitchen.

“Maybe?” Stiles replies, “Yes,” he confirms after focusing a moment and realizing that the melody and full lyrics of Living on a Prayer have now filled back into his mind.  “I don’t know how I know it.”

“I think the more unsettling thing here is the fact that you’re a Bon Jovi fan,” Jackson replies with a pained expression. 

“Hey, Bon Jovi rocks,” Scott argues.

“On occasion,” Jackson concedes, “still shouldn’t be the first thing the guy gets back out of all the musical possibilities.  We’ll have to fix that.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees; he doesn’t have an opinion on music really. If Jackson does, he’ll listen.

“Wow, yeah, that’s going to take some getting used to.”

“What?”

“Which is _fine_ ,” Isaac interjects.  “Don’t be an ass, Jackson.”

“Fuck off,” Jackson replies.

They’re not genuinely mad, just—teasing?—Stiles isn’t sure.  He can’t read anyone’s expression well enough to know how he should be reacting, so he returns to the grilled cheese sandwich he’s making.

“Did you remember these are my favorite, or am I just lucky?” Scott asks, grabbing one from the pile Stiles has been adding to.

“Isaac knew,” Stiles replies.    “I don’t remember much yet,” he adds apologetically.  “If you tell me your favorites I can—”

“Dude, it’s totally fine,” Scott replies.  “No worries. I was just curious.  Thanks for making it.”

“I can make your favorite later, Jackson,” Stiles offers. “Isaac wasn’t sure what it was.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jackson replies.  “If Derek’s buying, then I guess my favorite is a big, juicy steak with some caviar and—”

“Don’t tease him,” Scott interrupts. “He doesn’t get it.”

“Whatever, McCall.”

It’s an odd combination, but they’re both high quality food choices. Why wouldn’t it be Jackson’s favorite? But Scott says he’s teasing, so Stiles looks between the two of them, trying to get the tease—joke?—he’s missing.  When he can’t read it from their expressions—Scott’s annoyed and Jackson’s determinedly stoic—he glances at Isaac.  Isaac smiles reassuringly before changing the subject to disperse the awkwardness a bit.

“So what’s the deal with the basket?” Isaac wonders with a nod to the large wicker basket full of baking supplies Jackson deposited on the kitchen counter when he walked in.

“Oh, Lydia sent that for you Stiles,” Jackson explains.

“Me?”

“Yeah, I told her you were doing the whole cooking thing, and she wanted to do something.”

“Oh,” Stiles replies, looking to Isaac again for cues of further reaction.  “Thank you.”

_Why? That’s a lot of trouble directed at me. First a book, now a gift, but why? I don’t understand this part. Is this a family thing? It must be a family thing—giving just because you want someone happy, that’s a family thing—but she’s not family. She’s not pack. So why?_

Scott’s the first to reply to the confused look lingering on Stiles’ face.

“You like _obsessed_ over her for a while,” he says, “and then you two got really close the couple months before you were taken.  She took it pretty hard.  Guess she still wants to help even though she can’t see you.”

“She could now,” Stiles replies.  “I can control the shift,” he expounds, trying not to smile _too_ proudly, “I don’t need pain anymore.  I can just focus and make it stop.”

“It’s pretty impressive,” Isaac adds, and Stiles can’t hold back the proud smile anymore.

“So no more forks in your leg? That’s a plus,” Jackson comments.

 “That’s awesome, seriously,” Scott adds.

“I’ll—uh—mention it to Lydia,” Jackson tells him, though he’s seems a little apprehensive of the idea, probably because of what happened last time.

_I have control now. I have memories.  She’ll be safe, and it’ll be a good excuse to ask Derek for Lydia memories.  Maybe I’ll figure out how she works with the pack.  Or I could ask Isaac._

 “Come on,” Jackson continues. “I’m starving. Let’s move this to the table.”

           

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Cindy says I have to be home for supper or I’m grounded,” Isaac informs the room at large with a sigh.  “Anybody wanna give me a ride?” 

He dropped her car back late yesterday, leaving the keys on the tire and texting her to avoid direct contact and immediate grounding.  It was really only a matter of time before she called him in.  He probably has the recent drama with Julian—his pothead younger foster brother—to thank for the delay in getting his own audience with the parental units.

“I’ll take you,” Derek offers.  “The apartment’s not classified as a crime scene anymore.  I need to swing by and grab a couple things.”

As soon as the suggestion is out of his mouth he looks to Stiles, whose eyes have widened only slightly in trepidation; Isaac’s not entirely sure if it’s the mention of the apartment or the mention of both him and Derek leaving at the same time.

“Will you be okay with Scott and Jackson for half an hour?” Derek asks, assuming it’s the latter.  “I’ll be back quick as I can.”

“They’re pack; I’m fine, Derek.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

_He’d tell you that anyway though.  What if he’s not okay with it?_

“Maybe one of us should stay here,” Isaac can’t help suggesting.  “I can put it off for half an hour ‘til you get back or—”

“You need to go home; Derek needs to get his things,” Stiles counters. “I’m okay,” he insists firmly. 

Now it’s the battle between protecting Stiles and long as possible and remembering they can’t coddle him forever.

“We’ll be fine,” Scott agrees; he glances toward the basket of supplies Lydia sent.  “We’ll make cookies and shit.  It’ll be awesome.”

“Peanut butter ones,” Stiles interjects much more exuberantly than warranted.  Isaac doesn’t understand why he seems so excited until he continues, “I _did_ remember that one, Scott. Peanut butter cookies are your favorite.”

“Hell yeah,” Scott confirms with a grin.  “See? We’re bonding again already. We’ll be fine.”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles agrees, still smiling from the newest recovered fact.

“Call if you need me,” Derek instructs the three of them.  “Okay?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies as Scott says “Sure” and Jackson quips “Oh, my God when did you turn into such a _mom_?”

“Fuck off, Jackson,” Derek mutters moodily.  “Come on, Isaac. Let’s go.”

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles feels the tension building in his chest the moment the door closes behind Derek and Isaac, but he pushes it pack down.

_Scott and Jackson are pack. I’m fine. Derek and Isaac shouldn’t have to worry about me.  I’m fine. They’ll be back soon. I’m fine._

_"_ So are you seriously going to make peanut butter cookies?” Scott asks.  “Because you don’t have to but you’ll be my hero if you do.”

“Yes,” Stiles replies. “I like making things.”

_I need something to stay busy plus it makes you happy.  It’s a good plan._

“I’m shit in the kitchen,” Jackson informs them.  “I’m gonna see what’s on TV.  Don’t set the house on fire, McCall.  Let Stiles handle the cooking.”

 Jackson leaves the table headed for the den as Stiles and Scott move back to the kitchen.

“I know he seems like an ass, but he’ll grow on you eventually,” Scott says.

“I can hear you, you idiot,” Jackson calls from the other room. “I’m a fucking werewolf.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a fucking ass of a werewolf; watch TV and mind your own business!” Scott yells back.

They’re insulting each other, but no one’s really upset.  They’re joking—teasing?—again and Stiles doesn’t entirely get it. 

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles as he unpacks the basket of supplies. 

Stiles shrugs away the apology, not quite sure what it’s for.

“You remember the recipe or you want me to get it?” Scott asks.  “It’s not hard, but I never memorized it like you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“It’s cool.  I should show you the recipe books anyway if you like to cook.  It was kind of your thing even before.  After your mom died, you and your dad started going to Caroline’s all the time, but, once a week, you insisted on cooking like a legit meal—usually on Wednesdays I think?—and you pick something she had flagged in the books usually.”

Stiles files the information away; it’ll be good to know if his father moves back here as Derek mentioned.   Scott flips through the pages until he comes to a recipe flagged with a worn yellow post-it. He hands the open book to Stiles.

“That’s the one,” he says. “Nothing fancy or anything, but some damn good cookies.”

Stiles runs his finger over the discolored smudges on the page.

“We did that,” he says, looking up at Scoot for confirmation as the information pops unbidden to his mind.  “We had a food fight?”

“Yeah, we did.  You remember it?”

Stiles closes his eyes.  It’s not a whole memory yet, just facts and flashes. 

“The whole kitchen was covered in batter and flour and—” he turns to look at the far wall— “I knocked a picture frame off the wall.”

“Yep.”

_He’s eight years old, catapulting a spoonful of batter at Scott’s face. Scott ducks, and it hits a frame on the wall behind him instead.  The frame falls to the floor with a loud thud, but luckily doesn’t break._

_Not so luckily, Mom still heard, “What on earth are you two doing in there? I’ve only been gone two minutes!”_

_She rounds the corner just in time for Scott’s reciprocation throw of batter to miss Stiles by a mile and smack her in the face with a plop._

_“Mrs. Joanna, I didn’t mean to!” Scott says. “Stiles started it. He—”_

_“Did not!” Stiles argues, though he definitely did indeed launch the first handful of flour in this battle._

_“Spoon,” she demands, and Scott relinquishes it, head down in guilt._

_She dips the spoon in the batter still left in the bowl.  Scott looks on confusedly until he realizes at the last minute he’s under attack.  The retaliatory throw lands smack dab in the middle of Scott’s chest, next to two others from Stiles.  Stiles recovers more quickly than Scott, grabbing a handful of flour and throwing it as his mom, giggling uncontrollably as the mayhem continues._

“Stiles?” Scott’s asking.  “You with me, dude?”

“Yeah.  Just—I remembered it,” Stiles says with a grin, the lightheartedness of the memory still lingering, “She wasn’t even mad.”

“Well, she did make us clean it all up, which took about a million years,” Scott reminds him, “and threaten no more cookies _ever_ againif there was a repeat of it.”

“She was nice,” Stiles decides.

“Yeah, she was.”

Quiet falls between them as Stiles reads through the recipe and begins to assemble the ingredients.

“Derek says your Dad might move back here soon.”

“Yes, I think so.  Derek says maybe tomorrow.”

“He’s nice too, Stiles,” Scott says.  “He loves you.  You know that?”

“I know,” Stiles replies. 

_In theory._

It’s been really tough on him to let Derek take care of you, so, if he moves back, just—just remember he wants what’s best for you, too.”

“But Derek’s still my Alpha.”

“Yeah, I know, but your dad’s still your dad, ya know?”

_Not really._

“Give him a chance; that’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees.

_He’s family; family is important. That much I understand._

_But Derek’s still my Alpha; I understand that better._

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

It’s the first chance they’ve had away from Stiles since everything went down after Peter.  Derek expected Isaac so start shouting accusations or at least asking questions about Kate the minute the car door shut, but Isaac’s been quiet the whole ride so far, staring out the window with something clearly on his mind.

“What’s up?” Derek asks, more than a little worried of the answer.

_You so freaked about that you don’t want to talk to me at all? Yelling’s better than quiet._

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, Isaac? Don’t bullshit me. I can tell something’s up. Just talk.”

_Let’s have it. whatever you have to say, get it over with._

“What happens when he starts remembering me?” Isaac asks.

_Wow, okay, not where I thought this conversation was headed._

_"_ What d’you mean?” Derek asks, trying to reroute his brain to field this conversation when he’d been gearing up for a talk about Kate.

“Come on, Derek. What happens when he gets a flash of me throwing him into a wall at Scott’s? Or roughing up teammates to get rave tickets? Or  other shit like that?  It’s going to happen eventually.”

_Good fucking question._

"He’s seen what I was like before,” Derek replies. “It didn’t mess everything up.”

“Yeah, but he’s still a little scared of you.”

"I’m his Alpha.  You said it yourself, he’s going to be at least a little wary of me until he gets enough memories back to be a smartass again,” Derek points out resignedly.

"Exactly, but he’s not scared of me.  He fucking _trusts_ me, Derek.  One glimpse of me wailing on him at Scott’s, and that’s done.”

“You’ll just have to explain it.”

“How?”

“I dunno—but—give him something. That’s what I did, right? Remind him it was before—before he was pack. Tell him there’ll be good memories too.  I’ve got a couple decent ones of you two I can give him.”

Isaac doesn’t reply.  It’s clear from the dejected look on his face he doesn’t think it’ll be enough. 

“As he gets more of you he’ll be getting some of Scott too; he’ll get comfortable with him soon enough, and you won’t have to take care of him as much on your own anyway,” Derek says, trying to point out a silver lining.

“I mean, I don’t really mind looking out for him,” Isaac replies.

_By ‘don’t really mind’ you mean ‘have actually been enjoying’, don’t you?_

“Huh,” Derek replies. “I knew you didn’t hate it or anything, but I didn’t expect you to cry a river when he didn’t need you as much. I thought I was leaning on you too hard with this.”

“I am not _crying a river_!” Isaac retorts, “and this isn’t about me.  It’s about him losing one of the only two people he trusts at the moment.

_Sure, it’s about him.  He’s occupied our every waking thought for the past nine days. For us, everything’s about him right now._

“Talk to him later; try to explain. I’ll give him a few good memories tomorrow. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

_I don’t know what else to say to you.  You’re not the same newly turned, power-flaunting beta you were, but he’s not the same snarky pain in our ass he was back then either.  We’ll try and make him understand the best we can, same plan as usual, there’s not a whole lot else we can do._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

The minute Cindy and Rob go to bed, Isaac’s sneaking out his window and headed down the block to where Scott’s waiting to give him a ride to the Stilinskis’.  No way in hell was he staying here all night and risk fucking up Stiles good mood with nightmares—or worse, having memories of Isaac without Isaac there to explain himself.  He thought Scott might have something to say about how close Stiles and Isaac have gotten, but he doesn’t mention it the whole ride over, not until he’s dropping Isaac off and the door’s about to shut.

“Hey, thanks for taking care of him and everything,” Scott says.

“I don’t mind.”

"Don’t—just—be—be careful with him though; don’t confuse him.”

“What?” 

“I just mean, he’s really attached to you, dude.  Like _really_ attached. Don’t leave him hanging or whatever.”

“I’m not.”

“I know; I just—”

“He’s your best friend, dude. You’re worried; I get it.”

“Yeah, okay.  So—um—let me know if I can help with anything or whatever.”

“Sure.  See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll swing by after work.”

Isaac heads into the house, trying not to be too pleased at the way Stiles’ face lights up once Isaac walks through the door.

“You’re back,” Stiles says, stating the obvious.

“Yep.”

_I’m grounded as hell and they’ll probably threaten to get me drug tested again if I keep this up, but who gives a fuck about any of that?_

“There are cookies if you want some,” Stiles offers. “Food too. Jackson got—”

The sentence trails off as a memory takes him.  Isaac finds himself praying he’s not in it. Stiles snaps back without much fuss, he’s smiling faintly so the memory must’ve been a decent one.

“Sorry,” Stiles says.

“Don’t be. It’s fine.”

“There’s cookies,” he starts again, “and Jackson got pizza for everyone; the leftovers are in the fridge.”

“I ate already, but I’ll grab a cookie for sure.” _Even though I kind of hate peanut butter._ “Thanks.”

He eats the cookie with the help of a huge glass of milk to wash it down.   Stiles and Derek are watching the food channel, some chef competition show.  Isaac settles in on the couch between them.  He’s trying to figure out how the hell to even bring up the memory stuff, but he doesn’t want to ruin the chill vibe of the evening.  It’s a battle between rocking the boat now or later, and, in the end, he can’t ruin a good night for Stiles in favor of self-preservation.

No matter what he may have said to Derek, this anxiety about Stiles getting those memories back is way more about Isaac than it is Stiles.  Of course he doesn’t want Stiles to be hurt, but that’s a given.  What he’s focusing on is how accustomed he’s gotten to being with Stiles just in the past couple weeks—being the hand Stiles reaches for, the person who makes him feel safe, the one who brightens Stiles demeanor just by walking in the room—and  it’s been pretty fucking awesome to be needed—wanted even—and it’s even better now that Stiles is improving. Isaac really doesn’t want this—whatever it is—to go away.

They head up to bed when the show ends.  The others moved the furniture while Isaac was gone so the double bed takes up a lot of space in Stiles’ room.  He wishes selfishly that they’d just kept the twin bed, but he knows this is much more practical for the long term.  More importantly, this is about Stiles’ peace of mind, not Isaac’s preferences. 

“You’re unhappy,” Stiles says as he climbs into bed.

“I’m okay,” Isaac replies, getting under the covers on the other side.

“Can I help? I want to help.”

“It’s nothing,” Isaac assures him, but Stiles still looks worried.  Worried about Isaac when it’s supposed to be the other way around, so Isaac bites the bullet and starts the confession, “You’re getting memories back,” he comments, staring up at the ceiling.

“I thought you were happy about that?”

“Some of the memories of me you’ll get back won’t be very good ones—most of them actually.”

“I don’t understand.”

_Of course you don’t.  You’ve only ever seem the version of me that empathizes with an abuse victim.  You’re never seen the flip-side violent version._

"We weren’t really friends before, Stiles. We weren’t pack.  We got to know each other a little better when we started fighting the alphas, but before that I wasn’t—I wasn’t exactly good to you.”

“But you’re good to me now,” Stiles counters with a shrug, as though the rest doesn’t matter.

_It does fucking matter, Stiles. You’re going to be scared of me._

“I hurt you though, Stiles, I—”

“I know. It’s okay. Derek explained it.”

“Derek explained it?”  Isaac repeats confusedly.

"Yes,” Stiles confirmed. “When Jackson and Scott left.  “He told me how you were his beta, but I wasn’t in his pack yet.  He says any memories I get of you hurting me—or anyone—it’s because Derek told you to,” Stiles elaborates.

It’s a perfect excuse.  It takes all the blame from Isaac and attributes it to Derek. Isaac looks like a loyal beta who may not have _wanted_ to do what Derek said but would’ve followed orders anyway; Stiles can appreciate anyone being in that position. 

_But it wasn’t all Derek.  I’m not saying he helped matters, but it wasn’t his fault._

"Stiles, you shouldn’t think Derek—”

 “He doesn’t do that anymore,” Stiles replies, incorrectly assuming where Isaac was going with his interruption. “I know.  He doesn’t make us hurt people anymore. It was just because the kanima was hurting people, and he thought it was necessary. He explained that too.”

_Well, damn. He was pretty proactive on that one.  It’s a great explanation for you, and I can’t quite believe he took the fall for me—or maybe it’s more about protecting you, probably more about protecting you—I should tell you the truth though. I should. I really should_

But the groundwork Derek’s laid will get them through the foreseeable future with Stiles. By the time Stiles knows enough to understand the truths they’ve stretched to cover things up, he’ll also know enough to see _why._ He might still be pissed, but pissed later is better than hurt now, right?

_God, I hope so. He won’t even really like me once he’s back to himself anyway.  Am I such a horrible person for keeping this while I’ve got it?_

It’s not like he’d _ever_ delay Stiles getting better on the whole just to avoid rehashing some not-so-fond memories.  This’s just a white lie to preserving the peace of the present situation.  So Isaac decides to leave well enough alone and hope it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. 

As Stiles’ hand finds Isaac’s as he turns out the light and he rolls over closer to Isaac, Isaac pushes his unease to the back of his mind in favor of enjoying the moment.   He decides it doesn’t make him an _entirely_ horrible person for hoping that enough of this Stiles makes it through the “getting better” process to still want him around in some capacity down the road.  He wants the fear gone for sure, but, assuming Stiles keeps the memories of the past couple days, it might at least give Isaac a shot at staying close to him.

_And I want that shot a lot more than I ever really figured I would. I really do._

           

 


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles wakes before Isaac but doesn’t move, just continues to soak in the moment for a few minutes. Isaac’s arm is draped over him, and he feels ridiculously content just lying here under the weight of it.  He’s never felt this way anywhere else with anyone else, not that he remembers anyway.  There’s no place else he can think he’d rather be.

He can feel Isaac’s erection pressing into his thigh, and, though he knows it’s just something that happens—he’s experienced it plenty of times himself—he lets himself imagine it has something to do with Isaac’s proximity to him.  He likes to think that Isaac would want to be closer to Stiles, to lay some kind of claim on him, even though it would be nothing next to Derek’s right as Alpha, just a little claim that Stiles is Isaac’s.  Isaac’s to protect and care for and have as much as a beta can within the freedom given, and Derek gives so much freedom such a wish seem almost possible and doesn’t make Stiles feel disloyal.

_If Peter could be so careful with me, even just wanting me to help him gain power, how much more gentle would Isaac be? Isaac wants to protect me.  He explains everything.  He’s patient when I’m scared or confused.  Isaac is good to me._

_And I want to be good to Isaac._

There’s risk in the idea; Stiles can feel the usual twinge of apprehension that tightens his chest.  He runs through the idea over and over in his head, not for the first time, searching for the pitfall of the plan. 

_I want to be good to Isaac; it’s okay to want things._

_I don’t want anything back. I just want to make him happy.  That’s what pack does, what friends do. It’s how things work here. We make each other happy without agenda._

_I don’t want to challenge Derek, but Derek doesn’t want this from me.  He’s said so.  Derek wouldn’t hurt Isaac for being with me; Peter was lying when he said Derek would hurt me if he found out what we were doing. Besides, Isaac’s just a beta. He’s not a threat to Derek’s place as Alpha, like a Second would be.  Derek tells Isaac to take care of me; he lets us share the bed.  Isaac says unless Derek forbids it, most things are okay._

The arguments seem as solid as they always do.  This time though Stiles thinks he just might trust his own logic to be sound enough to act upon. 

_Derek says I should do things that make me happy.  He keeps telling me to do whatever I want to do._

_And I want to get Isaac to say my name like I’m something precious._

He takes a few deep breaths, working up the courage it will take to reach out and claim this moment he wants so badly.  He only has to move a few inches to bring his lips to Isaac’s, kissing tentatively, letting his hand drift down to stroke Isaac through his boxers, and hoping fervently that he’s right and this will be good.

He revels in the surge of joyous excitement that rushes through him when Isaac begins to kiss back.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It takes all of a minute for Isaac to fully wake and realize just how completely his body has betrayed him.  He jerks back from Stiles, flailing as he falls off the bed and fighting the urge to vomit at the idea of what he’s done. 

_What the fuck is wrong with me? What the hell dream was I even having? He trusted me, and now I—now I—_

All train of thought is cut off entirely with one glance at Stiles’ face.   He looks ready to fucking _cry—_ so hurt and confused and _wrecked_ —and Isaac wants to fucking castrate himself on the spot. 

“Isaac, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, voice breaking as he speaks. “I didn’t—I thought—I thought—”

“No, Stiles, it’s not—not your fault,” Isaac forces out, trying with everything in him to stay as calm, but he _can’t_ because he just fucked up _everything._

He closes his eyes against the image of Stiles hunched in the middle of the bed, broken and apologizing and thinking this is his fault when if he were in his right mind Stiles would be beating the hell out of Isaac for taking advantage of a fucking _trauma survivor._

He really is going to be sick; he can feel it.  He sprints for the bathroom, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the piteous, “Please, Isaac, I’m sorry,” that follows him.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles hugs his knees to his chest and tries to forget the look of absolute revulsion on Isaac’s face when he opened his eyes to see it was Stiles who was touching him.   He fights to stop the tears as he hears Isaac retching down the hall, but it’s no use.  He’d known Isaac might turn him down; he’s been turned down before—every wolf has its preferences. Stiles isn’t nearly vain enough to assume he’s what everyone would want—but he’s never, _ever_ , felt the agony of a rejection like this before, such an instant, overwhelming repugnance that it causes physical illness. 

It’s all made worse, so _so_ much worse because it’s _Isaac._  Isaac who would never have _taken_ this like the others, but who Stiles wanted to _give_ this to.

 _But Isaac doesn’t want it._  

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek wakes to the sound of someone upstairs being violently ill.  Maybe he was just close to waking anyway, maybe his alpha instincts kicked in, knowing that werewolves don’t get human viruses so retching usually involves the spewing of black bile indicating serious injury, or maybe Jackson’s right and he’s turning into a Mom.  Whatever the reason, he’s out of bed and bounding up the stairs in a matter of seconds.  He stops at Stiles’ open door.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

“I made Isaac sick,” he replies miserably.

_What the hell does that even mean?_

Derek continues down the hall to find Isaac hunched over the toilet.

“Isaac, what’s wrong?”

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he replies.

“I fucked up. Oh my God, Derek, I fucked everything up. I can’t—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I woke up kissing him, Derek.”

_Motherfucker..._

“You what?!?!”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Panic surges through Stiles at the sound of Derek’s raised voice.

_I was wrong about this making Isaac happy. What if I was wrong about Derek not caring? Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

He’s down the hall before he can think, desperation driving him even before his brain can process what he should do next.  He falls automatically at Derek’s feet, aiming for the small bit of bathroom floor between Derek and Isaac, remembering too late that Derek never seems to want him to kneel.

“Derek, no! Please, _please_ don’t hurt Isaac. Please.  It was my fault. I did it. I started it, Derek, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. I was—”

“Stiles, stop it,” Derek instructs calmly, “Stop it, and look at me, in my eyes,” he adds, crouching so that Stiles has only to raise his head to look at Derek.

Stiles pulls his gaze to Derek’s as told, relief washing over him as he takes in only confusion and concern, not anger, in the Alpha’s face.

“I am not going to hurt Isaac,” he promises. “I am not going to hurt you.  No one is in trouble; no one is getting punished. I’m confused, not angry. I just want to understand what happened, okay? You believe me?”

Stiles draws a shaky breath, trying to collect himself.  “Yes, Derek,” he answers honestly.

“Good,” Derek replies with a strained smile. 

There’s a moment or two of silence as Derek seems to be collecting his thoughts and choosing words.

“Isaac says he woke up kissing you,” Derek says finally, “and you say you started it.”

“Yes,” Stiles admits, eyes back to the floor.

“Can you—Stiles, I want to understand, Isaac too. We need you to explain it, okay?” Derek says finally.

“I thought—” and God he’s going to die of shame before he can get the words out because clearly his logic was terribly, horribly wrong somehow.

_It doesn’t matter what I was thinking, Derek. It was wrong, and Isaac doesn’t want this.  I fucked up again even though I thought through it so many times.  I was sure it would be good—at least didn’t think it would be this bad—but it is, and I wish I’d never done anything because wondering if it was possible was so much better than knowing it’s not._

As badly as he wants to hold in the explanation, Derek’s requested it, and Stiles dutifully starts again, “I thought that since Isaac’s good to me and helps take care of me and he always wants to protect me he might—he might be happy if the bond was stronger.  Nothing to rival your claim, Derek,” Stiles adds quickly, in case there’s any doubt.

“I don’t expect that from you because I look out for you,” Isaac interjects, and Stiles makes the mistake of looking over at him, wanting to cry again at just how miserable Isaac looks because of Stiles.  “You don’t think I expect that. Please tell me you don’t. I’m not _Peter._ ”

"No, Isaac, you’re not like Peter!  I know the difference; I swear,” Stiles replies earnestly. “Peter wanted it to get loyalty and power. You help me because I’m pack.”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, “But—”

“Packmates care for each other,” Stiles pushes on because if he’s going to get this logic out, it’s got to be now, before they can explain how idiotic his reasoning was.  “We want each other to be happy. We help make each other happy without expecting anything back,” Stiles goes on, repeating explanations of pack he’s heard dozens of times now.  “You wake me from nightmares and explain things and make me feel safe, and I thought this—” tears well in his eyes again as he realizes just how pathetic an offering this seems now compared to what Isaac’s given him; compared to Isaac’s goodness, what merit is there in the offer to claim a broken, used-up, werewolf like Stiles?  _No wonder he reacted this way. What was I thinking? This is the flaw in my logic.  How would this make him happy? How could I make him happy?_ “I thought this would be something I could do for you,” Stiles continues despondently.  “I wasn’t thinking, Isaac, I’m sorry. I really believed it would make you happy; I didn’t mean to make you sick. I won’t—I won’t ever touch you again, Isaac. I promise. I’m so sorry.”     

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles words sink in and now Isaac feels sick for a whole new set of reasons, most prominently because Stiles thinks he was so repulsed at the idea of kissing him that he literally puked. 

“Stiles, no,” Isaac protests. “No, it’s not—it’s not that it was you.  It’s not that at all. There’s _nothing_ wrong with you. I’m—I’m flattered, seriously that you would want to—” _fuck me even though you think it’s just some auto-pilot skill you can share to make people happy_ “—strengthen the bond,” Isaac replies.

Stiles looks helplessly from Isaac to Derek, searching for an answer he doesn’t see in their faces. “Then I don’t—I don’t _understand_.”

It’s almost a wail, and Isaac completely understands.  He’s pretty sure all three of them are on the verge of nervous breakdowns. 

_How do I explain this? How do I make him understand that’s it’s not him; it’s the situation. It’s the fact that he’s got such a warped view of sex and so little a view of actual normal relationships that I wouldn’t even know where to start teaching him differently._

“You think about sex differently than the rest of us,” Derek responds steadily since Isaac is struggling for words.  “It’s—it’s something much more personal than physical in this pack, especially if it happens between packmates.  It’s another thing we take the human approach to, not the wolf. I know I’ve told you that  I don’t want anything from you sexually just because I’m your Alpha, and it’s something we should’ve made sure you understood better.  I don’t expect it and neither do your packmates because sex is not something we use to emphasize pack dynamics.  Does that make sense? A little?”

_Not too shabby, there, Derek.  Way to step up. He still doesn’t entirely get it, but good effort._

_"_ Yes,” Stiles confirms, “mostly.”

“ _If_ you and Isaac want to get—” Derek takes a deep breath and sets his jaw before choosing the word, “—closer—or whatever, that’s okay. It’s allowed, but _only_ if you _want_ it—and not because you want it as a beta in this pack to strengthen a pack bond with a packmate, you can do that just with spending time together and building the friendship without any need for sex—if you and Isaac are together beyond that, it has to be because you want it for yourself, as an _individual_ apart from the things you want within the pack. 

The physical aspect of whatever relationship you two decide on is something that is between just you and Isaac, not the whole pack, and because you’re still relearning things that the Alpha Pack taught you, it’s something you two need to talk about so that you understand each other _completely_.  Because if you don’t talk about it, if you and Isaac aren't seeing things the same way, you'll go along with things for the wrong reasons because you don't know any different; if that happens because you two aren't talking things out, he’s still taking advantage whether he means to or not.” Derek’s giving a warning to Isaac with that last sentence.  He confirms it by glancing over to Isaac.  “You see how much it hurts him to think he’s taking advantage of you?” Derek goes on. “That was why his reaction to what you did was so strong and so negative, Stiles. He doesn’t want to take advantage; he wants to do what’s right for you, don’t you, Isaac?”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees. 

_Damn, Derek, that was pretty good._

“And that goes for anyone you would want to be with, okay? You have to want it for _you_ without any thought to pack duty or dynamics.  Sex is about you and who you want to be with.”

Stiles nods, deep in thought as the words process. “Thank you, Derek. I understand better I think.”

“Good, and you can always ask questions, you know that.  Me or Isaac. This is something else we’ll explain as many times as we need to, okay? It’s important for you to understand.”

“Yes, Derek.”

“Okay,” Derek says, running a hand through his hair as he tries to maintain calm and decide what to do next. “So you two need to talk.  You need to get on the same page and figure out what’s going on between you.  So I’m—I’m going to go—go pick us up some breakfast. And give you a chance to talk just the two of you, and then we’ll—move forward accordingly. Everybody good with that?”

“Yes.”

"Yeah, Derek, we’ll—we’ll try and figure it out.”

“Good,” Derek replies.  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Stiles still isn’t looking much of anywhere but the floor, which gives Derek the opportunity to meet Isaac’s eyes without Stiles seeing.  The message there is clear: _If you aren’t careful with him, if you hurt him, if you move forward before he understands, there will be serious hell to pay._

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

They don’t move from the bathroom floor. Stiles is leaning back against the cabinet under the sink now, and Isaac’s moved to lean against the tub, but that seems to be all the thought either of them is willing to expend on relocating.  Stiles is trying like hell to figure out what to say next, and it seems Isaac’s doing the same.

_Isaac thought he started it; he thought he was taking advantage.  Derek seems to think there’s something between me and Isaac that needs to be worked out. Does that mean he’s wanted to start it? That it’s not just me?_

If there’s a change for that, Stiles isn’t going to miss is. 

“What Derek said,” Stiles starts, “about wanting it for myself, not the pack? I do, Isaac.  The alphas _took_ it. Peter _took_ it. But it’s not like that with you.  I know you wouldn’t _take_ it.  But I wanted to _give_ it to you, if you wanted me,” Stiles tries to explain.   “You understand?”

He’s used to hearing the question, not asking it; it’s an odd feeling.

“Because _you_ wanted to be with _me_? Or because you thought _I_ wanted to be with _you_?”

“I hoped—I hoped both things were true.  I hoped you wanted us closer,” he says, using Derek’s words, “like I do.”

Isaac’s quiet a moment or two, studying Stiles carefully before saying, “Well, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Stiles can’t stop the hopeful smile, “You do?”

“Yeah, I just—I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t want to confuse you. I don’t want to take advantage of the situation.  There’s some insane complications involved in this.”

“Because I don’t have enough memories yet.”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“I’ll get them.  I get more every day. I’ll understand soon.  I can ask Derek for specific memories to help maybe? You can explain things to me again.  I’ll figure it out.”

“You really want this, you’re sure? Not just because—”

“I want this so much it scares me,” Stiles replies, blatantly honest because this wonderful thing he’d thought was impossible just minutes ago is somehow within his grasp again. “ _Please_ believe me, Isaac.”

“Scares me too,” Isaac admits, and Stiles still can’t figure out why he looks so guilty, “but just—just us being us, okay? Being together.  Acknowledging that we’re more than just friends or packmates or whatever but nothing physical until enough of your memories are back for you to understand who we both were before _and_ where we’re at now. Okay?”

“Yes.” 

_Together is the only part I care about anyway._

 

            


	12. Chapter 12

Scott drops by for lunch.  He doesn’t mention the way Stiles keeps grinning when he looks at Isaac, but he gives Derek a questioning glance.

 _I don’t even fucking know,_ Derek responds mentally, wondering if it comes out in his gaze. _I’m just trying to do what keeps Stiles happy, okay? I don’t even fucking know._

“So the sheriff’s moving back in today, right?” Scott asks, making conversation.

“That’s the plan,” Derek confirms.  “Stiles says he’s fine with it, so unless that changes between now and whenever the sheriff gets off shift—”

“It won’t, Derek. He’s my dad. He’s nice,” Stiles says, his eyes finding Scott’s.  “It’ll be good.”

“Yeah, it will be,” Scott agrees with a smile.

_I fucking hope so, I’ve had enough to deal with for today._

But the universe must not care that Derek Hale feels he’s had his quota of problems for the day because in the next minute Stiles is on the floor, clutching his head, screaming and writhing in pain.                

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The pain is worse than anything he’s felt before, worse than the alphas taking memories, far, _far_ worse than Derek giving them.  It’s nothing but a white-hot blinding agony that sears through his head and rips inhuman shrieks from his lungs because it feels like his skull is splitting open.  He’s sure the anguish is going to kill him, almost hopes it does just so it will _stop._ He can hear the worried voices of the pack as they lay hands on him, trying desperately to leech some of the pain away.

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Call Deaton,” Derek orders, and Scott fumbles for his phone. 

 “What the fuck, Derek?” Isaac demands. “Why can’t we take the pain? What the hell’s happening to him?”

“You think I fucking know?” Derek growls back, anger coming unbidden to mask the absolute terror building in his gut as Stiles continues to scream like he’s dying.

Derek would give anything to make the horrible, pained sounds escaping Stiles stop.  Until Stiles _does_ quiet, body going slack and unmoving on the floor, and a new level of dread strikes them all as they cry out his name in panic.

“Stiles, come on, wake up,” Isaac insists, shaking him.  “Stiles, please. Come on.”

Derek fights the panic back long enough to take in the steady rhythm of Stiles’ heartbeat.

“His pulse is fine,” Derek says, using the words to try and calm himself just as much as the others. “He probably just blacked out.”

_it’s probably a mercy more than anything. Now we’ve just got to figure out what the fuck it was and how to treat it before he comes to._

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Deaton says if we couldn’t take the pain from him, it’s probably mental.”

“Mental?” Isaac repeats.  “Like imaginary?”

_It didn’t sound fucking imaginary._

“Yeah, like, ya know psychosomatic,” Scott replies. 

They’re gathered in Stiles room now.  He didn’t wake as Derek carried him up to the bed.  Isaac’s not sure if that’s a blessing or just a bad sign.

“So it’s something to do with what the alphas did?” Isaac asks.

“Or what I’ve been doing,” Derek puts in.  “Tampering with what they blocked. I should’ve been more careful with it.”

“This is not your fault,” Isaac replies.  “Don’t say shit like that.”

_Even if it was something you triggered, you’ve been helping him, not hurting him._

“Yeah, dude,” Scott agrees. “You’re the only reason he’s gotten as far as he has the past couple days.  This isn’t you; it’s shit the alphas pulled.”

“So how do we help him?”

“We don’t,” Scott says.  “There’s not much we can do about it.”

“What the hell do you mean there’s not much? Painkillers or _something_ —”

 “Didn’t you hear me, Isaac? It’s mental. There’s no _actual_ pain to be numbed; we could maybe keep him sedated, but for all we know the pain would keep going.  It’s all in his head.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Isaac insists.

_I thought he was fucking dying.  If he wakes up in that much pain we’ve got to be able to help. What are we supposed to do? Sit here and let him scream? What the fuck?!_

“I wish there was, but there’s nothing to do but wait for him to wake up, and hope the pain’s gone when he does.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles moans piteously and buries his head into the pillow, curling into a ball as he pulls the covers up over himself.

“Stiles? What is it?” Derek asks.

_Stupid fucking question, but I don’t know what else to ask._

“Hurts, Derek, it hurts,” Stiles whimpers.

And goddamn but Derek’s going to lose his mind because Stiles sounds hurt and pathetic and Derek can’t do _anything_ to make the pain go away.

“Too bright,” Stiles mumbles.

“Close the curtains, Scott.”

“What else?” Isaac asks. “What can we do, Stiles we can’t take the pain but—”

“Please stop talking,” Stiles begs.

_Okay, light and sound.  So it’s a psychosomatic migraine-on-steroids? Is that what’s happening?_

“I want my dad,” Stiles adds miserably.

_The only reason you would want him instead of Isaac or me is if you remembered something—a lot actually. What did you remember? How much? What happened? What the fuck’s going on in your mind? Is it getting better?_

Derek wants to ask questions. He wants to know what the hell’s going on, but it’s clearly all Stiles can do to bear the pain long enough to form words, much less give full answers.  Derek bites his tongue and goes out and downstairs to make the call so the noise won’t cause Stiles as much discomfort. 

“Derek?” the sheriff asks when he answers. “Everything still set for me to come—”

“We need you to come now,” Derek interrupts.

“What happened?”

“He had—something happened to him—we don’t know exactly what.  He’s in pain, but Deaton says it’s all psychosomatic, and we think it’s something to do with the damage of all the blocking and rediscovering of his memories. We can’t do much to help him because there’s nothing actually physically hurting him, but he’s asking for you.”

“He’s asking for _me_?”

“Yes. I don’t know why exactly. I don’t know what he remembers or knows, but he says he wants you.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The others have made the room as dark as they can.  No one’s talking.  The pain is starting to ebb, little by little, but it spikes again with the sound of the front door opening and shutting and the conversation between Dad and Derek downstairs. He tries to tune it out as much as he can, hands over his ears and eyes shut tighter against the throbbing.  The bedroom door opens quietly, letting in just a little more light from the hall, but it might as well be a fucking solar flare. Stiles whimpers, but the door closes quickly to bring back the darkness.

“Stiles?”

His dad’s voice is as soft as possible, he can hear the footsteps as he approaches the bed, walking carefully in the dark.  Stiles pinpoints where his father is by the sound of the footfalls and reaches a hand out from under the covers.  He makes contact with his father’s arm and clings to it tightly.  His Dad trades his arm for his hand and grips Stiles’ tight.

“Stay,” Stiles begs pitifully, he knows he sounds like a child, but he doesn’t care because he feels like one. 

He’s been blasted with more memories than he can count and much, _much_ more emotion than he can handle right now.  There’s so much to take in he’s still drowning in it.  He anchors himself to the hand clasping his and holds on like it’s a lifeline, hoping the pain will subside and the memories will settle enough for him to resurface soon.

“Of course,” his dad replies, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.  “I’m right here, kiddo.”

The words echo painfully in his ears, but they comfort him nonetheless. 

_Please let it stop soon, please make the pain go away. Please, please, please._

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Derek sends Scott and Isaac to grab everyone burgers for dinner.  No way in hell was Stiles in any shape to handle the noise of anyone cooking.  They’re not even sure if he’ll be able to eat anything. 

“You think he remembers like _everything_ and he just can’t talk about it yet?” Scott wonders as they drive.

“I dunno. Maybe?”

“How weird would it be if when he wakes up he’s just totally fine? Like he’s just Stiles and knows everything and is just fine.  Like maybe his brain reset itself or something.”

“You know that’s not going to happen, Scott.”

"Why not? It could.”

“Even if he remembered everything, he’s still got the time since he disappeared added onto that. He’s not going to just pop out of bed and be fine.  The situation will just be less fucked up.”

“I’ll take what I can get, okay?” Scott replies clearly annoyed at Isaac’s pessimism. “It would still be fucking awesome if he remembers everything.”

"I’m not arguing that. It’d make life a hell of a lot easier.”

_I know you want him back, but don’t get ahead of yourself. Don’t get your hopes up and then pout like hell when he’s not okay._

“I mean, at least he’d know who the fuck I am, and maybe let me help when I offer.”

“Good point,” Isaac concedes.

They ride in silence for a while.  Isaac’s lost in thought about all of it.  Everything that happened this morning, now this. The hits keep coming; it’s _always_ something. 

_When it rains around here it fucking pours._

"You okay, dude?”

“Yeah, fine.”

"Seriously, what’s up?”

"It’s just been a long day.”

“Looked like a good day up until Stiles’ mental breakdown thing. He seemed pretty good at lunch,” Scott says, trying to spur on the conversation.

_Yeah, he’s fine.  I’m still trying to figure out how the hell this thing with Stiles is going to work and if I’m setting myself up for an epic failure when he gets his memories back._

“Yeah, he did,” Isaac agrees.

“He was grinning at you like an idiot all the time. Any particular reason?  He get a good memory or something?”

Isaac hesitates before answering, but it’s going to come up at some point.  Might as well make it now. 

“No, it’s—he’s happy ‘cause we’re—we’re kind of a thing now? I guess.”

“You’re what?” Scott repeats, his general joviality gone in an instant.

“We’re—”

“I heard what you fucking said, Isaac,” Scott replies tersely, pulling the car to the side of the road.  “What the hell do you mean ‘a thing’?”

“Not sex. We’re—”

“Damn right not sex, he’s—”

“I know, okay? I know. He’s not in any condition to have any kind of relationship, not really. I get that.”

“Then what the _fuck?_ Last night, _last night_ , I said he trusts you and he’s attached to you and to not fuck him over and what the hell do you do?! You go and—”

“He started it, okay? _He_ started it, and I stopped it; I did. I swear. I freaked the fuck out because I thought I must’ve given him the wrong idea somehow without meaning to and fucked it up, but _he_ started it. I swear to God.  I never would have made a move while he’s still like this.  He kissed me first, but then when I stopped it—and  you didn’t see his reaction, Scott, okay? You weren’t there—when  I stopped it, he thought—he thought it was because something was wrong with him, and that I didn’t want him, and he looked so fucking dejected and heartbroken and—”

“I don’t give a shit what he looked like! He—”

“He said he wanted this!  He wanted to know if I did, and dammit all I did was tell him the truth!”

Scott’s right to question this. Isaac understands why he’s upset, but it’s not like Isaac fucking _planned_ for Stiles to make a move on him! Maybe if he were a better man he’d’ve lied, but he didn’t.  It doesn’t make him the bad guy here.  Scott knows him better than to assume he’d take advantage.  Not even Derek’s freaked on him—not that Derek’s had a chance away from Stiles.

 “The truth?” Scott repeats.  “Which is?”

“He said it scared him how bad he wanted this, and I said ‘me too’.”

“Since when do you want Stiles?”

“I dunno, dude. It’s weird. It’s not like some long-term, super well thought out plan, okay? ” he takes a breath, trying to organize his thoughts into coherent sentences.  “I never knew Stiles before this. Not really. Until I got turned he was just the weird kid on the lacrosse team, and then once  I got turned, he was more or less the enemy for a while.  After a while I figured out he was nice enough and a good friend and everything, but it’s not like I saw him outside of making plans and fighting the alphas and shit.  It’s not like we ever had a reason to get close.

Now he’s literally _all_ I think about.   There’s shit you can’t go through without getting closer to the people that help you deal. You know that as well as I do; that’s why this pack works. It’s because we’ve all been through so much shit together and come out the other side okay.   This is like that—kind of—I guess? I don’t know how else to explain it.  I mean, after all this, the two of us were going to be closer when things finally get back to normal—as normal as things get around here—that was kind of a given.  These past couple days though, we’ve been _really_ close, and I dunno—I don’t want that to stop when he gets his memories back.”

“That doesn’t mean you fucking date him!”

“I’m not—I mean I _would_ once he knows how the hell relationships are supposed to work _—_ but I’m not really dating him now exactly.  Does that make any sense?”

“No.”

_How about I just bang my head on the dashboard until I knock myself unconscious and don’t have to have this conversation? I don’t fucking know what the hell okay? I just want him happy and safe and better and to not hate me when this is all said and done._

“Look, anything that _really_ happens—like legit dating stuff or any of the sex stuff or whatever—won’t happen until he’s far enough along in the memory thing to understand what it means outside the shit he learned from the Alpha Pack.  In the meantime, I wanted things between me and him to get better not worse, and you can’t tell me that turning him down wouldn’t have set back whatever we’ve got going with us _and_ set him back in general as far as voicing and doing what he wants.  He looked fucking heartbroken, Scott, and if going along with it means we keep getting closer and he’s happier, then I’m going for it. 

Besides the fact that it’s the fucking truth that I’d want to date him once he gets his head on straight; I’m not saying it’d even work out or anything, but after seeing all the shit he’d gone through and keeps going. Hearing all the memories he gets back and helping him figure stuff out.  I feel like I’m getting glimpses of him, and I’d kind of like to know the whole guy.  I’ve spent the past week hoping like hell that the scared kid I’ve been helping gets to reconcile himself with the happy kid I used to see.  I want to be there when he does get that change. And so when he put the offer on the table,  I wasn’t going to undo some of the progress for Stiles that came with trusting me _and_ lie about wanting to be involved as much as I can I didn’t have to.”

Scott doesn’t reply, but there’s a little more understanding in his face than there was before.

“Derek knows about this?”

“Yeah, and he’s gonna kill me if I try anything; Hell, I’d kill _myself_ if I try to take advantage of anything, okay?  Stiles knows it’s just some weird thing ranked slightly above just friends for the foreseeable future.  He knows it’s a complicated situation.  He knows he doesn’t understand enough yet for it to be anything more than that right now.”

Scott doesn’t reply for a while, but there’s _slightly_ more understanding in his face.

“I’m not Peter, dude,” Isaac adds in the silence.

That gets Scott to soften for sure.

“I’m not saying that,” he counters. “I’m just saying—”

“I told you yesterday.  He’s your best friend; I get it.  You worry about him.  The thing is, I don’t want him hurt any more than you do, _especially_ not because of me.  You don’t have to tell me to be careful with him. I know this version of him even better than you do.”

Scott’s quiet a few moments more before finally saying, “Fine.”

“Fine?”           

“But if this backfires and you shatter him, I will _end_ you.”

“Fair enough.”

_If I shatter him, I’ll want you to._

The rest of the car ride is pretty quiet, not that Isaac expected otherwise. Scott’s still processing. On the whole though, the tension between them goes down over time so Isaac’s counting it as a win.  By the time they turn down the Stilinskis’ street on the way back, they’re making small talk about the latest Angels game, so Isaac’s sure it’s a win. 

_Now back to trying to avoid mental breakdown while we wait for Stiles to fully wake up and hopefully be okay._

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

             

_Whatever it is, just let him be okay. Let the pain go away. Let him talk. Let him remember._

Derek’s been staring at the same spot in the living room wall for the past half hour.  He’s completely frazzled with waiting.  For all he knows, Stiles is lying upstairs having remembered everything.  Or maybe he just remembers a little.  Maybe asking for his Dad is what he assumed he should do to show family. Derek doesn’t fucking know; it could be any one of a million scenarios, and it’s driving him insane.  He wants to get out of this house—go for a run, go for a drive, just have something to _do_ —but he can’t make himself leave without knowing when Stiles might be well enough to get up and talk.  He doesn’t want to risk not being here when that happens.

_Come on, Stiles. Be okay._

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Sleep comes and goes, giving him brief periods of alleviation, and finally, _finally_ comes the blessed moment when he wakes to find the throbbing has receded to a simple persistent twinge in the back of his mind.  The relief that washes over him at the realization almost makes him laugh with giddiness.  He pulls the covers from over his head with his free hand, opening his eyes slowly.  It’s as dark as possible in the room, but his enhanced eyesight still allows him to make out the shape of his father in a chair by the bed; his head’s propped on one hand as he dozes, and the other still holding Stiles’.

He searches tentatively through memories that are finally settling, there are too many to explore them all individually just yet, all from his childhood, but through the years of memories now reinstated in his mind, his father’s face is everywhere.  The man who checks under the bed for monsters and puts him in time out when he breaks Mom’s favorite vase and takes him to Caroline’s for dinner on the nights Mom works late.  He remembers this man. 

_How could I have forgotten you?_

Stiles gingerly rises to a sitting position.  The twinge sharpens just a little in protest at the movement, but it’s still nothing compared to the previous agony.  His father stirs just slightly.

“Dad,” Stiles says quietly, thrilled to find the noise only a mild discomfort and even more thrilled to find the name familiar on his tongue.  “Hey, Dad.”

His father startles awake at the sound; his human eyes squint, unseeing, into the darkness.

“Stiles? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied.  “It still hurts, but it’s better now.  I remembered things,” he adds. “I remembered a lot of things. I remember you.”

"You what?”

“I remember you.  T-ball and the tree house and going to the station and getting badge stickers and—”

In the next instant, his father’s surged forward to wrap Stiles in a hug.  The embrace is careful but unyielding, and Stiles holds back just as tightly.  He smells the salt of his father’s tears as he blinks back some of his own.

“I’m sorry I forgot you.”

“Oh, kiddo, it wasn’t your fault.  Don’t be sorry.”

Scott, Derek, and Isaac are out in the hall; Stiles heard them hurry up the stairs the moment they heard his words.  Now they’re waiting, unsure if they should intrude.   

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice asks finally.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Just—not the light yet.”

They come in quietly, the dim light from the hall bright enough that Stiles snaps his eyes shut again.  He releases his hold on his dad.  The sheriff wipes hurriedly at his eyes as the rest of the pack stay by the door.

“I don’t remember everything,” Stiles admits.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Derek replies.  “Can you tell us what happened? How much you remember?”

“There were so many memories,” Stiles replies.  “All at once, and all in order, so everything kept building, and it was too much and it—”  _I thought I was going to lose my mind trying to handle it all, and then the pain was so intense I could barely think of breathing much less process the memories_ “—it’s just back now. I just know some things.  It’s weird.”  _I’m not sure what to do with all this._

"All in order?” Isaac repeats. “How much of it?  What’s the most recent thing you remember?”

Stiles focused in on the memories, sifting through, watching glimpses of life as he got older, finally resting on the image that seems the latest one.

“I was turning nine,” he replies.  “The cake was shaped like a dinosaur, and Dad put trick candles on it.”

 “Dude, I remember that!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles winces as the ache in his head spikes at the sudden audial assault. Isaac shoves Scott’s shoulder and shushes him.  “Shit, sorry,” Scott says, bringing his voice back down to a whisper.  “But I do; I totally remember that.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Nine years of memory—give or take—all at the same time.  No wonder your brain freaked out._

“You think something triggered it?” Isaac asks. “Or was it just out of nowhere?”

“It just happened.  I don’t know how.  I don’t know how to make it happen again.”

“Well, hopefully you get a little time to get over this one before the next round hits you,” Derek says.  “You said your head still hurts?”

“Not too much. I’m okay.”

“Okay enough for curly fries?” Scott asks.  “We grabbed supper a couple hours ago, so they’re cold but—”

“That’s what microwaves are for, right?”  Stiles finishes for him.  “I _always_ want curly fries.”

He looks as surprised as the rest of them that the words left his mouth.  It’s indicator of some serious progress, and they all know it.  He said what he wanted without looking at Derek first. He interrupted Scott. He wants fucking curly fries and there’s so much normality in it that Isaac can’t stop a grin.

“Please,” Stiles adds quickly, backtracking to the conditions politeness, “if that’s okay.”

His eyes do dart to Derek, uncertain, but Derek’s beaming along with the rest of them.

“That’s _great,_ Stiles,” Derek assures him, and the smile comes back to Stiles face. “Of course you can have them.”

“I’ll go warm ‘em up,” Scott offers hurrying downstairs.

Stiles eats as they sit around asking minimal questions, trying to understand how complete the memory recovery is.  Some things he speaks of like he truly understands, others as though they’re just scenes from a movie.  The sheriff sits, soaking it in with the rest of them, clearly reveling in the fact that they’ve finally reached a point where Stiles is really his son again.  It’s clear after ten or fifteen minutes that the pain is still more present that Stiles would have them all believe.  He’s eager to share the memories he’s gotten and show them how much he knows now, but the excitement doesn’t mask the way he sets his jaw against the pain when he’s not talking or how tightly he’s gripping the sheets.

“You should get some rest,” Derek suggests.  “We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes.”

Isaac pauses as the others go out, unsure how this works now that Stiles has comforting memories of other people, especially his dad. 

“You’re not staying?” Stiles asks timidly as Isaac takes the first step back toward the door.

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yeah, I’ll stay I just wasn’t sure if—”

“I can stay with you, Stiles,” his dad offers. “If Isaac wants a night off.”

“I don’t mind,” Isaac replies.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Stiles asks.

“Positive.”

“I won’t have nightmares with Isaac, Dad,” Stiles says confidently.  “I’m okay.”

There’s a dismissal in the words, and the sheriff hears it, though he clearly doesn’t want to. 

“If you need anything, I’ll be right downstairs, okay?”

“Okay.”

As he walks out pats Isaac, he gives a look he knows Isaac can see, even in the dim light: _Take good care of him, or you’ve got me to answer to._ Once the sheriff’s gone, Isaac finds his discarded pajamas from last night and starts to change. 

“Crazy day, huh?” Isaac asks lamely to break the silence.

_Understatement._

“Yeah.”

Just hearing a ‘yeah’ instead of a ‘yes’ from Stiles should not be so awesome, but it _really_ fucking is.  This is massive progress, and Isaac doesn’t know exactly what that means tomorrow brings.  It’s definitely better though, _so_ much better.  It has to be.  What would’ve taken _months_ happened in minutes, and, while he wishes it wasn’t so painful for Stiles, the happiness of gaining so many memories seems to be outweighing the lingering pain. 

_Scott’s right. We’ll take what we can get._

“Derek said we should talk about anything physical,” Stiles says as Isaac climbs into bed.

“Yeah, we should.”

_Fuck, Stiles, seriously? You just had an epic memory breakthrough, you’re head’s probably pounding trying to sort through everything, and you want to add this talk on top of it?? Please just enjoy the fact that you got memories and go to sleep.  We can talk about this later, I swear._

“Touching is okay, right?”

“Touching?”

“Like your arm on my shoulder or holding hands or—”

Relief floods Isaac as he realizes where this is going now.    

_Oh thank God this isn’t actually a conversation about sex._

“Yeah, Stiles, that’s fine. That’s good.  You understand that enough—especially now with extra memories.  It’s more a reminder that I’m here than anything, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So yeah, contact like we’ve been doing is fine.”

“Good,” Stiles replies with a grin, scooting over closer and reaching for Isaac’s hand.  “G’night, Isaac,” he adds, and Isaac can’t help grinning at the sound of another phrase that’s so normal coming so easily from Stiles.

“’Night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM! YOU WANT MEMORIES!? I GIVE YOU MEMORIES! :) ALL THE MEMORIES...okay, not all, and not all nicely typed out scenes, sorry for that, but there will be more of those along the way between attacks like these.
> 
> A couple things I want to ramble about:
> 
> Your unsought, behind-the-scenes fun fact with regard to alpha torture for the day:  
> In my head, the alphas would've taken some memories here and there to torture (like th flashback I wrote a couple chapters ago) but eventually it would have led to the realization that they couldn't break Stiles and they would have set out to take away who stiles is, starting with the most memories of his pack which and whittling down until there was nothing of the boy he was left. So now that they come back, they'll be the reverse of that, which conveniently for confused Stiles trying to piece them together is chronological order. Kinda make sense?
> 
> A note on Isaac:  
> if his reasoning for saying he wants to be with Stiles still seems unclear to you, it's meant to be kind of crazy muddled because that's where Isaac's at with it. He's definitely still trying to figure it all out; i mean, can you imagine trying to handle any of this? As he says in this one, all he knows at this point is that he wants things with stiles to get better and closer, however that pans out, and that he's not going to take advantage of the situation for sexual gratification. Those are the take-aways if I lost you somewhere in his rambling defense to Scott earlier :) 
> 
> Sorry for the excessive author's notes here. Hope you enjoyed the update! :) 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and thanks even more to those of you spurring me on with kudos and comments! Y'all rock!


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles doesn’t have nightmares, but he doesn’t exactly sleep _well._  He opens his eyes, squinting against the bits of daylight coming in around the blanket over the window.  It doesn’t cause the dull ache of his migraine to flare, which is a relief to say the least.  Maybe the pain will fade completely today.  In the meantime, he thinks he’ll be fine. He’s had much worse, after all, and this is a small price to pay for so many memories. 

It’s an almost unfathomable leap in understanding.  He can see so much better now what Derek means when he says the pack is a family and that they tend to do things the human way.  Stiles has a reference for it now, more than the brief glimpses he’s been afforded the past few days.  He understands what it is to be human, not just a beta, and it’s terrifyingly wonderful knowledge to soak in. 

Stiles settles in closer to Isaac, content to wait and mull over memories until Isaac wakes, but the movement is enough that he stirs in his sleep.

“Stiles?”

“I’m okay; go back to sleep.”

“How’s your head?”

“A lot better.”

Stiles stomach growls loudly.

“Sounds like time for breakfast,” Isaac says with a laugh.  “I can go grab you something.”

“I want to get up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Actually,” Isaac says, sniffing the air.  “Does it already smell like breakfast to you?”

“Yeah, smells like waffles,” Stiles confirms, “and bacon.”

He shouldn’t feel so pleased at the easy flow of the conversation, but it’s hard not to.  It feels so _normal._ It’s not the usual struggle for words and the balance of how much is too much.  The worrying warning in the back of his mind still insists he’s doing something wrong, but he drowns it out for now with years of memories.

“Maybe Derek’s up already,” Isaac supposes.  “You sure you’re okay to go downstairs?”

“I want to,” Stiles repeats.

Isaac’s first to the door, but the moment he opens it Stiles shies from the brightness.  Isaac closes it quickly.

“How bad?” Isaac asks.  “We can put blankets on the windows downstairs too maybe?”

“Sunglasses?” Stiles wonders instead.

“Will that be enough?”

“We could try.”

They search the room and find a pair in Stiles’ desk drawer.  This time when Isaac opens the door Stiles still squints even behind the shades, but it’s tolerable. 

“I’m okay,” Stiles promises.

They reach the bottom of the stairs to find both Derek and the sheriff sitting at the kitchen table with cups of coffee one of them brought back from Caroline’s judging by the labels on the cups.  Neither looks particularly well rested, and Stiles wonders if he’s not the only one who didn’t sleep very well.  He hates to think he might be the cause of it.

"Waffles?” Isaac asks.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be up to the noise of cooking yet,” Derek replies.  “Your dad says this is what you used to get when you were little.”

“With whipped cream, too?” he wonders. _You’re talking to your Alpha, you idiot._ Stiles falters as he struggles to recover the appropriate respect, “I mean—thank you, Derek, anything is—”

“Yes, Stiles,” he interrupts with a kind smile.  “They’ve got whipped cream, too.”

“You think I’d forget to mention the whipped cream?” his dad adds.  “And sprinkles.  It’s more dessert than breakfast, just like it always was.  You’ll be on a sugar high for hours, God help us.”

Stiles basks in the moment as they unpack the bags of food and begin eating together.  It feels _right_ to be here with them. 

_It feels like family._

Everyone keeps looking over and grinning at Stiles, but he’s not exactly sure why.  He supposes they’re glad he’s so relaxed now, but it’s not like he’s doing anything much.  He’s just going with the feelings the memories left in him. There are enough of the good ones now to fight with the fear the alphas taught him.  He’s not fixed yet, but he’s better. 

_Even if I never got more than this, I could be happy.  I am happy.  It’s already so much better than I thought anything could be._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek can’t help relishing the enjoyment on Stiles’ face as he sits eating with the rest of them.  He looks happy and content and so much more comfortable than Derek’s seen him since they got him back.  This is a glimpse of the Stiles he was starting to fear they’d never see again.  Stiles pauses halfway through devouring his waffle to study the sheriff who’s munching through bacon and eggs, probably trying to decide if he should comment on it.

“I’m still not sure how I know it,” Stiles starts tentatively, “but you’re not supposed to eat that, Dad. It’s not good for you,” he says somberly, glancing to Derek, still checking as he does after most sentences to make sure he’s not speaking out of place.   

The sheriff smiles and lays his fork down for a moment.

“Well, Stiles, you know that because you looked it up on WebMD and Wikipedia and Men’s Health and about a dozen other sites after reading an article in health class about the increased rate of heart attacks among people over the age of 40.”

“Oh.”

“And since I am now over forty, you were convinced that despite the impeccable results of my yearly physical for the department that _clearly_ indicate there is _nothing_ wrong with my heart, that my doctors were wrong, and I needed to cut back on sodium and red meat and all things that are generally worth eating.”

“So there’s nothing actually wrong with your heart?” Isaac asks incredulously. 

“Nothing,” the sheriff confirms.  “Fit as a fiddle in fact.”

“Then why do I say there is?” Stiles replies.

“I—uh—I guess you’re just being extra cautious,” the sheriff replies.

“Oh.”

It’s a half-answer, and everyone knows it.  Stiles sits back, looking puzzled, probably searching through memories he has in case there’s a clue somewhere.

 _You lost your mom already,_ Derek supposes. _You’re scared to death of losing your dad; we all know that.  So if you thought force-feeding him vegetables and egg substitute would give him some longevity of course you’d pester him into it._

“So if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not go back on the rabbit food diet just yet.”

“You should eat what you want if it won’t hurt you,” Stiles replies simply, modeling the philosophy himself as he shovels a large bite of sugary waffle goodness into his mouth.

A few minutes later Stiles freezes with a bite halfway to his mouth.  He’s zoned out in a memory, and they all watch worriedly for any sign that this is another cascade.  He comes back to the moment with a heart-wrenching look of grief on his face.

“I know why,” he says quietly. 

“Stiles—” his dad starts, voice pained.

“They handed out the article three days after your birthday,” Stile continues despite the interruption, “and I was thinking that you were in the age range; it could be you—that you could be fine one second and dead the next and how that would be even worse than—even—even  worse than Mom.”’ He meets his father’s eyes before he continues. “Mom’s dead now,” he says, voice cracking.  It’s clear this is the first time he’s connected that the woman in the memories is someone he cares about but won’t ever see again.  “I mean—I knew she was. They’ve talked about it.  I knew my mom was dead, but it never really mattered until—until—”

_Until you got enough memories back to realize who she was, that she meant a lot to you, and how much you’ll actually miss her._

In the next instant, the sheriff’s out of his chair and hugging his son tightly.  “I know, Stiles, I know,” he replies, tears on his own face.  “I miss her, too.”  Stiles buries his face in his father’s shoulder and the sheriff promises, “but I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere, okay? And if it makes you feel better, I will eat those god-awful veggie burgers ‘til the end of time.  I promise.”

It doesn’t look like Stiles is going to be ready to let go of the sheriff anytime soon.  Derek feels like he’s intruding on a private moment, so he gets up quietly and retreats to the den.  Isaac’s not far behind.  

_It’s not all going to be dino cakes and sugar rush waffles._

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Feeling better?” Scott asks when he walks in that afternoon.

“Yeah, a lot.”

“I take it the eyes are still a little sensitive?” Scott asks.

“No, I just look cooler with sunglasses.”

The words are out before Stiles really means them to be; something about them sounds right though, so he doesn’t worry until everyone in the room freezes.

_Fuck._

“I’m sorry, I—” he says quickly.

“Dude, don’t apologize!” Scott replies giddily.  “You just made a joke, Stiles!”

“You said something _sarcastic_! That’s fucking awesome!” Isaac adds.

“Never thought I’d be glad to hear that,” Derek adds, and he’s smiling too so it must be okay.

Stiles grins at their approval of the statement.  He didn’t plan to say it, so he’s still not sure he deserves the credit.  Nevertheless, they’re all pleased, so he’ll have to remember to let comments like that out more often.

“What’s in the bag?” Isaac wonders.

“Oh, I—uh—I figured if Stiles remembered being nine he’d probably remember Gran Turismo 2, too, so I dug my PlayStation out of the attic.”

“Yeah, I remember it!” Stiles replies excitedly.  “I always win!”

“Okay, you don’t _always_ win.”

“I mostly remember winning,” Stiles insists.

“I mean, sure you were good, but I won sometimes, too,” Scott persists.

“Can we play?”

“Hell yeah we can play!”

Stiles turns to Derek who’s beaming at him so brightly Stiles can’t help smile back.  “Derek, is it—”

“Of course it’s okay,” Derek permits before Stiles can even get the question out.  “I keep telling you, Stiles. Anything you want to do is okay.”

_Except some things aren’t okay.  Like with Isaac.  So I’ll keep asking._

“Thanks!” he says aloud. 

They waste the next few hours taking turns with the races.  Stiles wins quite a bit, though admittedly, Scott wins sometimes too.  He thinks it’s probably better that way.  Even when he loses though, Scott doesn’t seem to mind very much. 

Voices in the back of his mind keep insisting that this isn’t useful or practical or anything to help preserve his place here, but one look at Derek silences all the worry.  He’s clearly happy to be sitting here with the three betas taking turns at the race, though Stiles is careful not to beat him.  Even Dad takes a turn, though he wrecks horribly and gives up after just a few tries. It’s a great day, Stiles decides.  Worthy to file away in his mind with the other memories now cozily settled there.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

"Is something back there?” Isaac wonders.

“Huh?”

“Is something back there?” Isaac repeats, moving to look over Stiles shoulder out the window at the back yard, scanning for whatever it is he’s been staring at.

“No,” Stiles replies. “I was just thinking.” He looks from Derek to the backyard uncertainly before he ventures, “Derek, can I go outside? It’s too bright now. I can’t yet, but later, when it’s dark, is that allowed?”

“Sure,” Derek replies, “Your dad called to close the missing persons report this morning; it doesn’t matter if anyone sees you. If you want to go out, it’s definitely allowed.”

Stiles grins, looking back out the window, and Isaac can see now the tree he’s eyeing in the back corner of the yard. 

Scott must see it too because he wonders, “You remember the tire swing?”

“Yes, but it’s gone now,” Stiles replies.  “We could still climb the tree,” he adds hopefully.

“I bet we could round up an old tire somewhere before sundown and get a swing fixed up again,” Isaac suggests.

“Really?”

“Hell yeah,” Scott confirms. “Come on, Isaac. There’s usually a big pile of them out behind the mechanic shop.  We can ask about grabbing one and pick up some food for dinner.”

“I can cook while you’re gone,” Stiles suggests instead. “It’s Wednesday,” he adds.  “I always cook on Wednesdays, right?” he asks Scott.

“Yeah, if you feel up to it.”

“I want to make taco casserole, like mom, I remember how now,” Stiles replies. “If that’s okay, Derek?”

_Dude when are you going to figure out that Derek would let you make dirt pies and eat it with a smile if it’s what you wanted to do.  Of course it’s okay._

“Yeah, sounds perfect.  I’ll help if you want; maybe you can show me how you remember it.”

Stiles grins at the prospect. “Yes, I can show you.”

Scott and Isaac set off on their quest for a tire.  Stiles and Derek head to the kitchen.  Stiles isn’t the only one who’s got childhood memories flooding in.  Isaac vividly remembers the swing he and Camden put up one summer, and personally can’t wait to feel nine-years-old again.

“So he remembers me,” Scott says gleefully as they ride.  “Well, at least 8-year-old me anyway.”

“To be fair here, I don’t think your friendship grew up much past acting like eight-year-olds,” Isaac teases.  “He knows plenty.”

“Shut up,” Scott replies, but he’s smiling.  “Actually, yeah, that swing only broke like a year ago, but, in our defense, you’re never too old for a tire swing.”

“No arguments here.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I was never very good at cooking,” Derek admits as they walk in the kitchen.  “Pancakes and sandwiches are about as complicated as I can go.”

“It’s not too complicated,” Stiles assures him. 

“Good.”

He’s still not sure why Derek would need to know how to cook.  He can buy the food, or Stiles can make it.  Still, Stiles enjoys cooking, so maybe Derek thinks he will too? Regardless, if the Alpha wants to be taught how to make something, Stiles will teach him.

“You’re the one who knows what to do,” Derek says when Stiles looks at him uncertainly.  “You call the shots on this one.”

_You’re the Alpha.  No, I don’t.”_

“Um—” Stiles begins, wondering if Derek wants to learn more by watching Stiles do it or by doing it himself, wondering how much he’s allowed to suggest the alpha do.  “Could you brown the hamburger meat, please, Derek?  I can get the other ingredients together.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

Derek seems amiable toward the idea, and Stiles relaxes just slightly.  He gets everything together but notices the eyebrow raise when Stiles sits the jar of jalapenos out of the fridge.

“Do you like spicy things, Derek?”

“Sure,” Derek replies with a shrug.

_That didn’t sound like a yes._

“We don’t have to use them,” Stiles says quickly, just in case, moving to place the jar back in the fridge.  “It’s probably better without—”

“Stiles, it’s fine; I want you to make it like you normally do.”

“I want you to like it,” Stiles counters. “If you don’t—”

“It’s not about me,” Derek replies.

“You’re my Alpha.”

“That doesn’t make your whole life about me,” Derek tells him.  “You’ve got memories now. You know life outside the pack. You haven’t always been under an Alpha.”

“But I _do_ have a pack now. I have you, Derek, and I should—”     

“You want me to be happy?” Derek interrupts.

“Yes, Derek, of course.”

“Then think about you _before_ you think about me.  The number one priority for us right now it to help you and get you comfortable with us again.  That’s what we all want; it’s what I want.  It’s a family, not just a pack, okay? Does that make more sense now? Yeah, I’m your alpha, but I should be a scary big brother or something, not a tyrant, okay?  Treat me like a friend, not an alpha.  You can say what you want, do what you want, you can even argue with me if you want; there’s no wrong way to act toward me, especially right now while you’re still acclimating.  If you get it wrong or step over a line, I’ll tell you, but I doubt it happens and there won’t be punishment for it.”

 _Treat me like a friend, not an alpha.  You can say what you want, do what you want, you can even argue with me if you want_ , The words all make sense, they all pull back to concepts Stiles can tie memories too, but this is one time he’s not sure the memories can outweigh the alphas’ training, not with the uncontrollable instinct to respect and obey his alpha humming in the back of his mind as well.  

“It’s hard for you to do,” Derek concedes when Stiles doesn’t immediately reply. “I know. I know they taught you that you should be afraid of your Alpha, but I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Stiles.”

“I’m—I’m not,” Stiles assures quietly.

“You don’t have to lie,” Derek says wearily.

"I’m not, Derek I promise!”

_Please believe me. This is something I can explain because I’m pretty sure I understand it now._

“I know I should respect you; I know you have authority, so I don’t want to go against anything you’d want.  I know you _could_ do a lot of things—have a _right_ to do a lot of things—because you’re my Alpha, but I know you don’ t _want_ to hurt me. You don’t _like_ using the power. You like being family instead, and you do things all the time to help me—peanut butter and pancakes and waffles and memories and not keeping me from my Dad or Isaac—I swear I’m not scared of you liked I was scared of them. You’re not like the Alpha Pack.  I know that; I do. You’re so good to me, Derek. It’s just—I just—you’re still my Alpha.”

_See? I can see the difference.  I see it better than ever, but they still made me this way, and I’m not really fixed yet, and it’s so hard not to worry what you’ll do, but I’m trying because I know I shouldn’t worry.  I’ll get better. I’ll relax. Because you’re good, Derek. I’m not scared._

“You see the difference?” he asks.  “You really understand I’m not like them?”

“Of course I do, Derek. You’re never like them.  You’re better than I thought alphas could be. I promise I’m not scared; I’m just—cautious?  Definitely not scared.”

The response gets a small smile from him, and Stiles can’t help smiling shyly in return.  They return to their tasks and finish preparing the dish.  Once it’s in the oven, an idea strikes Stiles.  He’s never going to be able to put himself _before_ the alpha, but maybe he can think of himself sometimes _in addition_ to Derek.

“I can make cookies for dessert,” Stiles says.  “Half your favorite and half mine.”

“Sounds _perfect._ ”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek watches out the back window as Isaac and Scott push Stiles as high and fast as they possibly can on the swing.  Stiles is laughing gleefully, face alight with the joy of the moment, and Derek wishes he could keep Stiles this happy all the time.  Stiles switches places with Scott, and Isaac heads back toward the house, promising to return with drinks for everyone.  Derek preemptively grabs several bottles of water from the fridge.

“Okay, stop trying to pretend you’re too cool for the swing, and get your ass out there,” Isaac commands when Derek hands off the water.

“I make him nervous,” Derek replies. 

“Not _that_ nervous.  You played video games with us, and he was fine.”

“He was scared to let himself beat me.”

“Well, lucky for you, there are no winners or losers at the art of the tire swing.  There’s just awesome.  Come on; I mean it.  You’re too stressed out.  Cutting lose around him can only help, and you need to unwind before you lose your mind.”

“Isaac—”

“No arguments,” Isaac persists shoving him toward the door.  “Go!”

Derek rolls his eyes and follows Isaac.

_You better be fucking right ‘cause if this kills his mood it’s your fault not mine._

“Higher!” Scott’s demanding as they come out the back door.

“You’re heavier than you were when we were eight,” Stiles retorts.

“Yeah, and you’re a fucking werewolf now. Come on!”  He spots Derek coming across the lawn.  “You really going to swing, Sourwolf?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “Don’t call me that,” he adds automatically, realizing too late it means Stiles will think that’s a rule now; Derek protests the nickname, but he minds it a lot less than he pretends. 

“Whatever,” Scott replies dismissively.  “Here, help me stop and you can have a go.”

“Whenever you’re done.”

“I’m good.  I’ve had like three goes already.”

“Careful,” Isaac teases when Derek gets in the swing.  “You’re out of practice on the whole ‘fun’ thing.  Don’t strain yourself.”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously, when was the last time you actually did something like this.”

“A long time,” Derek admits. _Before the fire._ “We never had a tire swing.  We had a rope swing by the pond though.”

“You have a pond? Where?”

“About a half a mile from the house.” _Well, where the house used to be_.

“I think I got a memory of that when we were doing the practicing stuff,” Scott says.  “You pushed Laura in.”

“Probably,” Derek agrees. _Not like that was a rare occurrence._

“And she practically drowned you in retaliation.”

“I _let_ her.”

_Mostly._

“Sure you did,” Scott agrees sardonically.

Derek catches Isaac’s eye for just a moment as he hangs at the peak of the swing, and he nods toward Stiles, who’s as relaxed as he was before Derek came, happily pushing him on the swing like it’s the most normal, natural thing in the world.  Derek looks back to Isaac and the message in his gaze is an easily read: _Told you so.  More relaxed you get, the more relaxed he gets._

"Could we go there?” Stiles wonders.  “Could we make a swing there too?”

 “You could probably use a trip, huh, Stiles?” Isaac asks. “You’ve been cooped up inside a while.”

“Can we, Derek?” Stiles asks.

 “I don’t see why not,” Derek replies.  “We’ll have to make a new swing, like you said, but other than that it shouldn’t be a problem.  Weather’s warm enough.”

“Tomorrow?” Scott asks.

“We could ask Jackson and Lydia to come,” Stiles suggests.

“Sounds good,” Isaac says and Derek nods his agreement. 

_Sounds like pack._

It hits Derek that searching for Stiles made them a pack and saving Stiles is making them a family. One way or another, so often  it seems to come down to him, the 147 (or less) pounds of too-pale skin and not-so-fragile-anymore bone that got under Derek’s skin almost a year ago and—thankfully, hopefully—hasn’t gone away.  He hopes, as ever that they can get Stiles to a place where he’s okay again. Derek owes him more and misses him more than he’s ever going to admit.

_One day at a time, Sourwolf. He’ll get better._

 

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, more fluff :) 
> 
> Just some notes (apparently it's becoming a thing?):
> 
> About Stiles' reaction to his mom: I'm not meaning to belittle the impact of her death. There's no doubt it effects him deeply. However two things to keep in mind, a)this version of Stiles hasn't got the memories of her dying b) this version of Stiles has been through all kinds of hell. He's going to internalize in favor of being happy which makes the others happy. I'm not 100% how much on-screen time Mama Stilinski grief is going to get, just because there are other issues to the forefront, but it's part of his character, I'm keeping that in mind as I write him. 
> 
> About the video game, I'm aware that game came out when they were 3, but I was always a generation or so of video games behind as a kid because my parents couldn't shell out for the latest and greatest. I'm guessing these two were in the same boat :) 
> 
> thanks for reading!! Hope you're still enjoying it!!


	14. Chapter 14

“You remember Lydia?” Isaac wonders as they get dressed and ready to go meet the others at the pond.

“From school,” Stiles replies with a nod.

_Oh, right, you like fell in love with her in third grade, didn’t you? This could be interesting._

"She’s pretty,” Stiles comments, “and she’s smart, but she’s bossy.”

It’s not quite the enraptured response Isaac expected.

“Sounds like Lydia.”

“She still bosses werewolves?” 

“Pretty sure Lydia could take on most of us and win,” Isaac replies.  “She might not be able to take us with brawn, but she’d kick our asses with her smarts any day.  I wouldn’t piss her off.”

“Oh.”

"I mean—don’t be _worried_ about her,” Isaac adds quickly.  “She likes you.  You two were close, remember?”

“Yeah. I saw her in some of the pack memories.”

“She’ll be happy to see you.”

“Last time I saw her I tried to kill her,” Stiles replies a little guiltily.

“That’s not all that uncommon a situation in this pack,” Isaac says honestly.  “We’ve all had those moments when the circumstances weren’t in our favor.”  _When you weren’t on my side of the fighting line. When Jackson was a kanima and we kept trying to kill him.  Pretty much all of us have wished the others dead at some point._ “It was her fault for surprising you, not yours for reacting.  No permanent damage done.”

“Well, there _was_ that pie…”  Stiles says solemnly before cracking a grin.

_Damn you don’t know how good it is to hear you say shit like that again._

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

_We should’ve parked the cars someplace else ,not that there’s anywhere else really, but we should’ve parked someplace else,_ Derek thinks as he watches Stiles staring up at the burned out husk of the house with tears welling in his eyes.  Isaac’s got a weird look on his face too, probably because it’s the first time he’s seen it since he found out anything about the people who died here.  It’s a fair bet Scott and Jackson are going to have more affected reactions than usual too, Jackson’ll do a decent job of hiding general emotion, but Scott’s fucking puppy dog eyes should make up the difference.

There was no avoiding this really. They were all going to see it eventually. He can handle them being sad over it. Of course they’re going to feel _something_ after being exposed to so many Hale family memories.  But he’s going to lose it if they start giving him the pitying glances and careful treatment.  He doesn’t need or deserve anyone’s pity.

“Will you ever fix it?” Stiles wonders quietly.

“What?”

“Sorry,” Stiles replies, and Derek gets the impression he didn’t entirely mean to ask that out loud. “Just wondering. It’s none of my busi—”

“I don’t need some big ass house for one person,” Derek answers with a shrug.

“But you’ve got a whole pack, right?” Stiles asks. 

“Yeah, but—I mean—it’s not like—”  _It’s not like we’ve had time to hang out enough for me to think they’d ever want a pack house.  I’ve mostly been trying to keep us alive day-to-day. This past week’s been the most consistently we’ve acted like pack beyond protecting each other’s lives._ “Guess I just haven’t really had a chance to think about it.”

“It would be kind of awesome,” Isaac agrees.  “If you wanted to.”

Scott’s car pulls up then, thankfully ending the conversation. Sure enough, from the moment he steps out of the car, he’s got his best sad puppy eyes on.    

“Dude—” he starts, looking sadly to Derek as he walks over.

“Don’t,” Derek says firmly. 

_One sentimental, pitying statement about them and I swear to God I’ll punch you in the face the first moment Stiles isn’t looking._

“Ooookay then,” Scott replies.  “You guys get a rope?”

“Yep, two actually,” Isaac replies, holding them up.  “Should be good to go.”

“Awesome.”

“That sounds like Jackson and Lydia now.  We’ll head out as soon as they get here,” Derek adds.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles can feel the nervousness building as the truck pulls up.  Jackson gets out first, smiling but wary, clearly ready to protect Lydia if he needs to.  He doesn’t though; Stiles is so much better than last time.   She steps out of the car with a smile that’s too forced and walks tentatively toward Stiles, not the usual confident flounce Stiles has seen in memories.  She’s being careful with him this time.

“Hi, Lydia,” Stiles says.

“Hi,” she replies, smile widening just at the fact he’s said her name; she comes to a stop a good ten feet from him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, “I know you’re a friend; I even remember you a little bit.   Besides, I learned to control the shift.”

“Knew you would,” she tells him.  “You were always a pretty quick learner when you wanted to be.  Almost as smart as me.  _Almost._ ”  He smiles at the compliment as she moves closer.  “So, is it—would it be weird if I hugged you? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Well,” Stiles replies. “Thing is, there’s a five dollar fee for any and all hugs, but as long as you’ve got the cash—”

She actually lets out a laugh as she launches herself forward to close the few feet between them and latches her arms around Stiles.  He hugs back, picking her up off the ground and spinning her like he’s seen his dad do his mom in so many memories.  It gets another giddy giggle out of her, which makes him smile.  Maybe the attack last week really is forgiven like Isaac said.   He puts her down and sees Jackson smile too as he relaxes, sure now that Stiles is in control enough that the danger to Lydia’s gone.

 “Ugh, look at me,” Lydia says, brushing at tears when she finally lets go. 

 Stiles smiles when he realizes he knows the right thing to say for that, “Don’t worry; you look beautiful when you cry.”

That has her hugging him all over again. 

“God, I fucking missed you,” she says, words muffled into his shoulder.  “Did you remember to say that?” she asks, pulled back from the hug, “or—?”

“Sometimes things are just kind of in my head,” he replies.  “I don’t have a memory to go with it or anything.  I just had a feeling it was what I should say.”

“Well, any progress is good progress, right?  It’s a step in the right direction.”

“Yeah.”

“Jackson, what’re you doing?” Isaac wonders, drawing everyone’s attention to where Jackson’ begun to grab coolers and blankets and things from the back of his truck.

“Oh, I just packed a few things,” Lydia replies.

“A few things?” Scott repeats, nodding to the large stack of supplies.

“We’re putting up a rope swing and swimming,” Derek reminds her, “not going on a five-day hike.”

“Picnic supplies for five werewolves is no small undertaking,” she replies.  “Plus blankets for all of you and a chair for me because I’m _not_ sitting in the leaves and getting muddy and gross and covered in bugs,  and then a few other things—speakers for the music, camera, extra towels.”

“The pond is half a mile away,” Scott reminds her.

“Then it’s a good thing I have all you big, strong weregentlemen to carry it for me, isn’t it?” she asks with a sickly sweet smile.  “Better hop to it.”

“No,” Derek says. “We don’t need all that—”

“Come on, Derek, don’t you want it all to be nice for Stiles’ first trip outside the house? The day would’ve been fine without my excellent planning skills, I’m sure, but Lydia Martin doesn’t do anything halfway.  Suck it up, and stop spoiling the mood.”

 _You shouldn’t talk to him that way_ Stiles thinks, glancing anxiously to Derek.  Derek’s definitely annoyed, but he doesn’t seem angry.  Maybe they’re okay, but, despite Isaac’s words earlier, Stiles is still surprised to see just how readily she bosses werewolves, even the Alpha.

“Fine,” Derek bites back with a glance to Stiles.  “We’ll go all out, just this once, but don’t expect us to haul shit every time we come out here.”

Stiles hides a smile at the words because of Derek’s mood, but the clear implication is that this might be something they all get to do regularly.  Stiles had hoped as much, sure already that today might be even better than yesterday, but he didn’t want to ask yet.

At Derek’s words, there’s a collective sigh of exasperation from the rest of the group as they move begrudgingly to grab things. Stiles moves to follow, but she grabs his arm to stop him.

“Not you, Stiles, you’re the guest of honor. You get a free pass.”

“I don’t mind.”

“She’s right; guest of honor gets a free pass,” Derek agrees as he moves past them with a cooler to lead the way.  “Take your breaks while you can get ‘em.”

"Okay,” Stiles agrees hesitantly.  “Thanks.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Isaac, come on!” Stiles calls from the water when Isaac climbs out and doesn’t go immediately to swing back in. 

“I’ll be back in two seconds,” Isaac promises.  “I’m gonna grab some water.  Try to dunk Jackson or something.”

 “Hey!” Jackson protests.

“What? Scared ‘cause you know I can?” Stiles demands.

“Whatever,” he scoffs just before Stiles launches himself at Jackson.

Derek’s over by the cooler and pulls out a bottle of water for Isaac as he approaches.        

“Thanks,” Isaac says as he takes a seat on the cooler opposite.   He pauses a moment before adding, “And thanks for, ya know, doing all this.”

"Lydia did all the planning.  I just bought a couple ropes.”

“You know what I mean.” _Would you for once in your life just accept some gratitude?_ “For coming out here and everything when Scott brought up the memory.  I know you usually want us as far as possible from anything to do with your family stuff.  Thanks for sharing this time.”

Derek just shrugs.  “It’s not a big deal.”

_Yeah it is, and we both know it, but if you want to pretend it’s not I guess I can roll with that too._

Derek nods toward the pond.  “He’s good today,” he comments, changing the subject.  “I wondered how he’d take to Lydia.”

“Seems pretty good,” Isaac replies.  “I kinda thought he’d be totally in love with her if he got blasted with nine-year-old Stiles’ memories, but he seems a lot more normal around her—like the weeks before he was taken, not the seven years of obsession prior.”

“He’s too scared of her to be charmed anymore.”

“ _Scared_ if her?”

“Okay, maybe that’s not the right word,” he concedes, “but he doesn’t know how to handle her anymore.  He doesn’t know how to reconcile it with his conditioning.   He doesn’t see her as beautiful and confident girl; he sees a beautiful but insubordinate _human_ of all people.  It makes him—not scared, you’re right—but I guess, wary? He’s going to have to get used to her.”

“You know, to be so thick half the time, you can be pretty insightful.”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean it,” Isaac says more earnestly.  “You’ve stepped up to the plate the past couple days.  You’re doing a really good job with him—relaxing and talking and explaining and just—you’ve done a good job.”

"I’m going for Alpha of the Year,” Derek quips back, dissipating all chance at sincerity for the moment.  “It comes with this awesome trophy and everything.”

“Please don’t try to pick up the slack for all the Stiles sarcasm we’ve been missing,” Isaac replies with a roll of his eyes.

“Somebody’s got to,” Derek replies with a smirk.

“Ha!” Stiles shouts triumphantly from the pond, jarring them both from the conversation.  “I win!”

 “I _let_ you win,” Jackson replies, spitting out water. “I’m just being nice; don’t overrate yourself.”

“Come on,” Isaac says, standing and grabbing Derek’s arm to pull him toward the pond.  “Better get back in before he whines that we’re gone.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s mid-afternoon, and though Derek isn’t going to go so far as to admit it out loud, Lydia’s picnic plan was fucking awesome.  They’re all exhausted but contentedly full, lounging around on the blankets she packed.  Isaac’s not quite asleep yet, but Stiles is completely gone, using Isaac’s chest as a pillow.  His face is relaxed, and there’s a faint smile playing at his lips like he’s dreaming of something good.  Derek holds back a smile at the sight.

When he looks away, he finds Lydia’s been watching him from her perch in the lounge chair.  She nods to Isaac and Stiles and quirks an eyebrow in question.  Derek shrugs in response.

_I don’t know.  They look happy enough, don’t they? Please just leave it alone._

But Lydia won’t, he knows she won’t, and so when he gets a text later than night once everything’s settling down, he’s not all that surprised.

“Starbucks. Now,” it reads.

He doesn’t reply, but two minutes later there’s a second message threatening, “If you don’t, so help me, I will come to that house and have this discussion there, and that’s not going to help anybody.”

She wouldn’t.  She’d never do that to Stiles while he’s in this state of confusion, but the threat’s enough to know she’s not letting this go anytime soon.  So Derek makes a lame excuse about needing to run errands and goes out to meet her.  She’s at a table outside, latte in hand, by the time Derek arrives.  She stands and walks over to the car, and he’s glad she’s got enough sense to know this conversation shouldn’t happen where normal people can hear.

“Black, two sugars, right?” she asks, extending the cup of coffee she must’ve gotten for him.

He nods as he takes it. Sometimes it’s truly terrifying just how much Lydia knows about everything. 

“So what do you want to talk about?” Derek asks moodily as she settles into her seat.

“What do you think, genius?”

“They’re fine. Isaac’s not going to hurt him. They work well enough right now.  Leave it alone.”

“I know Isaac will be careful with him,” she replies. “It’s not Stiles I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“Don’t play dumb; you’re not good at it.  You know damn well who I’m worried about.  I know it’s not any easier for you to see him like this than the rest of us. It can’t be easy to add on top of that the fact that he’s going for someone else.”

“I told you already, what happened with me and Stiles was a fluke,” Derek replies tersely.  “We thought we were about to die, and then we didn’t.  We got caught up in the moment, and he wasn’t thinking straight, okay?  It was a _fluke._ ”

It must’ve been a fluke. There’s no other reason Stiles would have kissed Derek of all people.  Derek who gets on his last nerve, who fights with Scott, who ‘thinks too much like a soldier and not enough like a human’.  He’s the last person on earth Stiles would want. 

_It was a fluke, and it was a lifetime ago.  It doesn’t matter now._

“Stiles was pretty damn excited about it, if I remember correctly,” Lydia counters.  “He didn’t think it was a fluke.” 

“Yeah, well, Stiles isn’t Stiles anymore, is he?” Derek snaps back.  _He’s not Stiles because they took him, and I’m not stupid enough to think the fact that he was gone within twelve hours of the Hale Pack Alpha showing an interest in him is just a coincidence._ “So it doesn’t matter what he told you about it.  He doesn’t remember it.  He’s with Isaac.  They’re good. _Leave it the fuck alone._ ”

“I’m not going to say anything,” she replies, “I just think _you_ should consider—”

“Consider what, Lydia?” Derek demands angrily.   _Goddammit I did not sign up for this shit.  Do you think I haven’t spent the past week worrying myself sick over how to handle this before realizing the only thing to do was pretend it never happened and pray he doesn’t remember it?_   “You think I should what? Tell Isaac? So he’ll be even more fucking confused than he already is about how things will work with Stiles? Or maybe I should tell Stiles? Stiles who would think it meant I claimed him.  You know what he’d do, Lydia? You know what he would do if he thought for _one second_ that I wanted anything besides friendship from him? He’d beg me, really _beg_ without expecting mercy,  for me to beat the shit out of him and not Isaac, and then he’d be afraid to so much as _look_ at anyone else while he waited for me to get around to fucking the hell out of him. _That_ is how he would react.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“There is nothing helpful that comes from anyone else knowing about this. _Nothing._ So we’re going to bury it, you understand me? You’re going to forget you ever even knew and leave Stiles and Isaac alone or _so help me God_ I will shut you up myself.”

The words and anger shake her for a moment, the reminder that, however okay Stiles might have seemed today, he’s still a long way from being the Stiles he used to be.  He knows she can see the truth in his words. She saw Stiles herself, she’s heard stories. She should fucking know better than to think for one minute that bringing this up would in any way help Stiles or Isaac.  What Derek wants doesn’t matter. He’s not selfish enough to put them through new levels of torment for the sake of getting this off his chest.  No way in hell could he do that. They’re already dealing with enough.

“He’s going to remember it eventually,” Lydia points out .  “Then what?”

“You think I don’t know that? Every time he zones out to a memory I’m freaking the fuck out that he’s going to see that one.  He hasn’t yet, and I hope to God if he remembers it at all it’s at a point when he’s got enough other memories to realize what it meant—didn’t mean—whatever.”

“And if he gets it sooner than that?”

“Then Stiles just might end up back at square one,” Derek replies.  “So you better fucking pray it doesn’t happen that way.”

           

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Stiles has been debating saying something the whole time they’ve been getting ready for bed.   Isaac wishes he’d just go ahead and spit it out, whatever it is, because it’s bringing down the bliss they built up with the day at the pond.

"Isaac?” Stiles asks finally.

“Yeah?”         

“If we talked about it,” he says timidly, “and if you didn’t mind, could  I—could I kiss you?”

He’s blushing like crazy, and Isaac swallows hard. _Oh shit. Still not equipped to handle this conversation, dude._ Stiles is bringing his eyes up now to gauge Isaac’s reaction though, so he puts on an amiable smile.

“Yeah, we could talk about that if you want to,” he says.

I can’t shut you down without hurting your feelings.  I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it myself a couple times.  I just can’t say yes without figuring out why you want this.

“Because I think I understand things better now—human relationships, I mean—from the memories.”

"You do?”

“It’s not supposed to be just instinctual sex pack dynamics stuff, right? Like Derek said?  It’s holding hands and hugs and doing things for each other and—and wanting to just _be_ with a person I think, wanting them close to you.”

“You’ve been watching your parents in your memories,” Isaac guesses.

Stiles nods. “I want to be like that,” Stiles says. “I—the way they were, I want us to be like that—if you want to be.”

_But because you want that and I seem like the best candidate or because you want me in particular?_

Stiles starts to backtrack in the silence, “But if you don’t, we don’t have to—”

“Sorry, it’s not that, I’m just—thinking.”

“Oh.”

Stiles eyes drop and he starts fidgeting slightly, fingers drumming on the edge of the bed where he’s taken a seat.  Isaac moves to sit next to him.

“I’m not sure you’re ready for that yet, Stiles.”

“I don’t remember being kissed by anyone but the alphas,” he says to the floor, and it rips at Isaac’s heart to hear it.  “I have all these other good memories now, but not that—except when I kissed you before and that wasn’t—”

“That wasn’t exactly ideal,” Isaac finishes for him.

“No,” Stiles agrees.  “But if—if we—if I kiss you, it would be a good memory, different from the ones I’ve got.  I like letting the good memories overshadow all the ones from my old pack.  I know I don’t understand all of it yet, but I want to kiss you, Isaac, because it would be different from what they used to do.  It would be good. It would be like my parents, and you’d look at me like he used to look at her, and—it sounds dumb, I know it sounds dumb, I just—I want that—so much—and if you think I don’t understand enough will to try to explain it again because I really want to—”

_Ah, fuck it.  You want this to make yourself happy, not just because you think it'll make me happy, and that’s enough understanding for right now._

“Okay,” Isaac agrees. 

“Okay?”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The nervousness—good nervousness for once—has just a moment  to build in his gut before Isaac’s lips meet Stiles’ and nothing else matters for a moment.   It’s as blissful as the first time with the added elation of _knowing_ this is okay and Isaac wants it too.  Stiles kisses greedily, licking into Isaac’s mouth, wanting as much of Isaac as he can possibly get, relishing the way Isaac lets Stiles lead and kisses gently back.  Stiles leans into the kiss, never wanting it to stop, until Isaac’s the one who pulls away first.  Stiles panics for a moment, thinking he pushed to far—probably should’ve kept it to the short, more chaste kisses he’s seen in memories—but Isaac’s smiling brightly so nothing’s _too_ wrong.  Stiles knows the smile on his face his even bigger.

“Not that that wasn’t fucking awesome,” Isaac says breathlessly, “but one step at a time, okay? Not too fast.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees.

Isaac leans in for one more quick kiss before pulling back again and retreating up the bed to climb under the covers. Stiles settles in beside him, head on Isaac’s chest like at the pond today, thrumming with happiness and excitement, marveling at how each day can possibly get so much better than the last.

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, there ya go. A couple of y'all have been guessing at the Sterek before Stiles was taken thing, bask in the satisfaction of being correct and rest assured this isn't the lats we've seen of that issue. :) 
> 
> And yes, ladies and gentlemen, Stisaac just took another bounding leap forward. I know on the one hand you would think Stiles still doesn't understand enough, and I agree to an extent, but I also think it's incredibly sad that his only memories of kissing and sex and all that jazz are the alphas and peter. So i wanted some good experiences in his head too :) so sue me for being a sucker :P sorry I'm not sorry?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it had to happen eventually...

           

        

They’ve had six days of as near-perfect contentedness as they could hope for.

 Six days of sorting through and reliving Stiles’ childhood memories to everyone’s general amusement with only the occasional bad memory to mar the fun.

 Six days of picnics and pack dinners and video games and pick-up lacrosse in the backyard.

Six days of enjoying the fact that life’s pretty predictable, is starting to fall into comfortable rhythm, and that the Hale Pack—plus its honorary human pack members—is functioning more like a family than any of them would have thought possible just a few months ago. 

And Derek hates—really fucking _hates_ —the voice in the back of his mind screaming that something’s bound to come along and fuck this up soon.  He wishes more than anything that he could shut it up.  Isaac actually does a damn good job of keeping him in the moment, cajoling him to come enjoy the goodness while it’s happening instead of sitting on the sidelines worrying about what will come.  It doesn’t stop the worry completely though, and he can feel the same worry in the others sometimes too, the growing dread that this is going to shatter.

 

 *********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

These kisses are turning into something much more akin to make-out sessions, but Isaac can’t feel too guilty about that when he’s the one who always stops things.  Eventually they’re going to have to talk about everything else, but for right now, this is all he’s willing to believe Stiles can really understand, and it’s all he can handle doing without feeling like a horrible, advantage-taking, castration-worthy person.  There is something devastatingly endearing in the pouty look on Stiles’ face when Isaac pulls back and suggests they get some sleep, and Isaac can’t help smiling.

           

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles wakes, gasping as the sharp pain in his head.

“Isaac,” he whines, but he knows Isaac can’t help him .

“Stiles, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but instead a cry escapes him as the torturos stabbing sesation in his mind escalates.

“Listen to me, Stiles,” Isaac commands, voice too loud and echoing. “It’s all in your head. The pain’s all in your head. Try to focus on something else—anything else.  It’s not real. You can beat it. Try.”

_Isaac. Derek. Scott. Dad. Lydia. Jackson. Isaac. Derek. Scott. Dad. Lydia. Jackson. Isaac. Derek. Scott. Dad. Lydia. Jackson._

It’s not working; the pain crashes over in waves, ripping cries of torment from him as he curls in on himself and clutches at his head. 

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

It’s worse than before, so _so_ much worse, because Stiles doesn’t black out after three or four minutes of pain.  It just keeps going, cycling up to the point Derek’s sure this round is killing him, fading down to the point they’re praying it will stop only to escalate again.  He screams in anguish; in moments when it ebbs enough for some kind of coherency, he screams for his packmates and father by name.  Derek’s sure it’s going to drive him mad to sit here helpless. 

They call Deaton, who comes bringing sedatives, but the moment Stiles regains consciousness the pain continues as if it never stopped, a never-ending cycle of misery, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. 

“He’s strong, Derek,” Deaton says encouragingly.  “He’ll be fine.”

"Does he look fucking fine to you?!” Derek demands, grabbing Deaton’s collar and slamming him back to the wall before he can rein in the fury.  “Look at him! It’s going to kill him or drive him insane! And we aren’t doing shit to help him!”

“Derek,” Isaac pleads, pulling at the arm that pins Deaton.  “Come on, this isn’t helping.”

“Nothing’s helping!” Derek retorts, shoving Isaac’s arm away as he releases Deaton.  “That’s the fucking problem.”

“Shift,” Isaac tells him. “Shift, go for a run, take a break from this.  Even if he does wake up right now, you’re no use to him like this.  Go.”

Derek hesitates, looking to Stiles. He can’t leave him like this.

“Go!” Isaac orders, his calm wavering as he admits.  “You’re not the only one trying to keep it together here.  I’m going to need a fucking break soon too, so you need to go ahead now and get your shit together.”

Derek knows Isaac’s got a point though he doesn’t want to admit it.  He nods once before heading out the back door.  He’s shifted and running the minute he hits the tree line.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Once Derek’s gone, Isaac looks wearily to Deaton. 

“Is he right?” Isaac asks.  “Will it kill him or drive him insane?”

“I’ve never heard of any case like Stiles’,” Deaton replies.  “Any answer I give is purely speculation.”

“Then speculate,” the sheriff commands tersely.

Deaton looks sadly to the whimpering form on the bed. 

“It’s psychosomatic; it shouldn’t be able to kill him.  I couldn’t say for sure about his mental state, but he has been through a lot.  There’s no way to gauge the extent of the damage.”

“So it really could put him over the edge?”

“We can’t know for certain until the pain subsides.  We have to hope for the best.”

_Yeah we fucking do because after everything he’s dealt with if we lose him now he’s not going to be the only one that goes crazy._

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

_Please, just let it stop. Let me die. Please, just let me die. Let it stop.  Please, let it stop._   

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s been eight hours, twenty-two minutes, and some odd seconds of listening helplessly as Stiles endures the agony.  When it _finally_ stops, there’s less than a second of relief before Stiles flies off the bed, fully shifted, and goes for anything with a heartbeat.  Isaac takes the first three blows, completely unprepared for the assault.  Derek takes the next few blocking for the sheriff as Scott pulls the befuddled man out of the room.  Derek advances on Stiles, pinning him to the wall with enough force to hold him but not hurt him.      

“Stiles, stop!” Derek commands in the Alpha tone, “It’s us. You’re safe. You’re okay. Stop fighting.”

He sees now that Stiles has been fighting with his eyes closed; even the dim light coming in from around the blanket on the window was too much for his eyes once he shifted. He wrenches his eyes open though it clearly pains him and stares at Derek like he’s a mirage.

“Derek?” he croaks out in barely a whisper, shifting back to human under Derek’s hands.

“Yeah, Stiles, it’s me.  You’re safe, okay? You don’t have to fight.  You’re safe now.  It was just another round of bad memories.  You’re all right.”

“Oh my God, Derek,” Stiles sobs, relief washing over him as he sags and his head slumps forward to Derek’s chest. 

Derek realizes his hands pinning Stiles are the only thing keeping the beta on his feet.  He picks Stiles up, damsel-in-distress style for lack of a better option, and carries him over to the bed as he continues to sob on Derek’s shoulder.

“I thought I was gonna die there,” Stiles chokes out. “I really thought—I thought—”

“It’s okay,” Derek promises as he sits Stiles on the edge of the bed and takes a seat next to him, arm around Stiles’ shoulder to keep him upright. “You’re okay now. So help me God, Stiles, none of them will ever hurt you again; _no one_ will ever take you from us again.  You’re safe.”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Safe.  Safe and Derek and Isaac and everyone and home and okay and safe._

He doesn’t even try to stop crying.  It’s all too much—all the memories, good ones, bad ones, ones that are going to fucking haunt his dreams ‘til the day he dies and the pain, God, the pain that he was so sure would kill him and the swirling, aching chaos inside his brain as everything tries to rearrange into some kind of order.  It’s too much, and he can’t deal, not right now.

_But it’s okay. I’m home. I’m safe. I’m okay._

He’s exhausted, body and soul, and he’s sure he could sleep for days if he wasn’t so damn scared of waking up to find this a dream.

"You need to rest,” Isaac coaxes.

_Isaac. Good Isaac. Isaac who’ll keep me safe while I sleep._

But too many things wait for him in the dark if he lets the sleep in, so he fights it, tries to open his eyes but it’s all too bright so he has to shut them again.  The sleep starts closing in again and this time it claims him for just a moment or two, but he wakes to the jostling of someone laying him back on the bed.  He’s awake and kicking and fighting away in the next instant.

_Dream.  It was a dream. I’m not safe. Never safe. Run. Run!_

He gets free of the grasp and scrambles to the floor, not that the floor is any safer. Nowhere is safer.  They’ll do what they want with him no matter where he tries to run.

“Stiles?” Isaac asks worriedly.

_No. no. not them. Not alphas. It’s Isaac. Just Isaac and Derek and home. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m safe._

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Stiles,” Derek says, and he sounds so sad; sad because Stiles is running from them, but Stiles can’t help it.

“I know; I know,” he promises miserably.  “I didn’t mean to I just—I can’t get—I can’t get it out of my head. I know I’m home, but I can’t—I just—I can’t get them out of my head.”

“How do we help?” Isaac wants to know.

“Just—just—gimme a sec.”

_Give me an hour. Give me a month. Give me a year. There’s too much at once, and I can’t do this._

But they wait patiently for him to try and collect himself again and tell them what to do.  He doesn’t know what the hell they can do to help, but he knows that he’s going to sleep soon whether he wants to or not, he can feel the bone-deep weariness pulling at him again.   There’s only so much he can do to fight it off.  He stands slowly and opens his eyes against the light.  He can handle it better now he’s human, but it still glares uncomfortably.

“I have to sleep.”

“Good idea,” Isaac confirms when Stiles pauses awkwardly after the statement. 

_It’s not an idea. It’s an unavoidable physical response to exhaustion that I would stop from happening if I could, but sure, let’s call it an ‘idea.’_

“I’m going to wake up running or fighting.”

 _I have wake up running or fighting. It’s no use; they’ll beat me back down again, but if I wake up trying I get farther. I have to keep fighting._ Memories fly unbidden to the front of his mind, pain and terror and desperation and— _No. No. Not anymore. I’m safe. I’m home. Stop. Stop. Go away. I’m safe. I’m home._

“What do you want us to do?” Derek wonders.

“Don’t let me hurt anyone,” fear clenches in his gut as he says.  “I hit people—before, before you talked me down I was swiping at—my Dad, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t hurt him, Stiles,” Isaac assures.

He basks in the small relief for a moment before he says, “Make sure I don’t hurt him. Promise me.”

_I can’t hurt Dad. Can’t scare Dad. Don’t let me hurt him. Please, please don’t let me hurt him._

“I promise.”

“Scott’s with him?” Stiles guesses; there’d been a fourth heartbeat in here, it’s a safe bet.

“Yes.”

“Scott, stay with him,” Stiles says, slightly louder, knowing his friend will hear.  _Keep him safe, safe from me, safe from them. Don’t let me hurt him. Don’t let him get hurt._

“Sure thing, dude,” Scott calls back from somewhere downstairs.  “Get some sleep, you looked like shit,” he teases, and the familiarity of the playful insult pulls Stiles away from the anxiety for a moment.

_Chist, I fucking missed you._

“Okay,” Stiles says, half to Scott, half just calming himself and stalling as he tries to think through what he has to do next; he pulls his attention back to Isaac and Derek. 

_Have to tell them how to help. They want to help. They’ve been helping. They’ll help.  I can sleep. I have to sleep, but they’ll watch out. They’ll help. What will help?_

“Okay, just—when I wake up, you’re going to have to say it all again.  I’m not going to believe—I’m going to think this was a dream.  I’ve had this one before—” _okay not exactly this, but dreaming I’m rescued_ “—so you’re just—you’re going to have to say it all again.”

“As many times as it takes.”

“And don’t let me hurt anyone.”

_Please, God, don’t let me hurt anyone. I can’t hurt anyone again. I can’t. I can’t. Not Dad. Not anyone. Please don’t let me._

“We won’t.”

“Okay,” Stiles says again, taking deep breaths as he tries to calm himself.  “Okay.”

_Sleep. I can do this. I have to do this. I’m okay. I’m home. I’m safe. They’ll be here to help.  I can sleep. It’s okay._

He moves back to the bed.  Isaac offers a tentative hand, and Stiles, who hadn’t realized until this moment that he was still trembling takes it and holds on like his life depends on it.  Derek moves to leave.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Sourwolf?” Stiles demands, brashness swooping in like an old friend to mask the fear. 

“What?”

_No. I’m not going to cower. I can say that to this Alpha. It’s just Derek. Just Derek. Derek won’t hurt me. I’m home. I’m okay. I’m safe._

“You’re in charge of the left side,” Stiles replies once he’s talked himself into the gumption, nodding to the unoccupied space on the bed. 

He wants both of them. If they’re both here, he won’t get away. He won’t hurt anyone, and he can pretend nothing will hurt him.

“I’m probably gonna need that alpha command when I wake up,” Stiles adds when Derek doesn’t immediately acquiesce.

_Why aren’t you moving? I know I’m pathetic; I’m sorry, but I need you to suck it up for a second and help me. Please, Derek, come on. Please._

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

_I ran from you. You think I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid of you since you found me. You don’t want to scare me._

“I’m not scared of you; I’m scared of them.  I know you’re not going to hurt me. Just please—I’m about to fucking pass out from exhaustion here.”

So Derek comes slowly to lay down on the other side of him. Isaac’s cautiously but comfortably curled around Stiles.  Derek’s stiff as a board and clearly trying to keep as little contact as possible.  Stiles would make fun of him if he had the energy for it, but now that he’s lying down the exhaustion is pulling him under. He settles for finding Derek’s right hand and clasping it just as tightly as he has Isaac’s left, and Derek relaxes just a little.

_Safe._

_Isaac and Derek and home and okay and safe. I can sleep. It’s okay. I’m safe._

_Please don’t let this be a dream._

_Let me be safe._

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Sourwolf?_

Derek replays the words over and over again in his head as he lies beside Stiles and Isaac, listening to Stiles’ even breathing as he falls into almost immediate sleep.  Derek can feel the smile playing at his lips because the phrase is just so wonderfully, blessedly _Stiles._

Stiles is back—whatever degree of damage there is, however long it takes to help him get past it—this is _finally_ Stiles. He’ll be okay.  They’ll all be okay. Sure, this puts a whole new level of complicated on all kinds of things, but Derek couldn’t give a shit less.  They’ll figure it out as it comes.

_Stiles is back._

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

When Isaac wakes him from the first nightmare, Stiles comes off the bed fighting furiously.  They at least knew to expect it this time and Isaac pins Stiles’ to the ground quickly enough.  Stiles’ claws go deep in Isaac’s chest just as he realizes it’s Isaac above him and not an alpha.  He shifts back to human with a horrible look of guilt on his face.

“Fuck, Isaac, shit. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Isaac interrupts, gritting his teeth and forcing a smile.  “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m awake. Sorry.”

“It’s really okay.”

_I’ve had worse, and I’d take worse to help you; what’s a broken rib or two if you’re back?_

Isaac stands and offers Stiles a hand up.

“You should get some more rest,” Isaac tells him.

“I’m good. I’m fine. I don’t need it.”

“Stiles, you were barely asleep for two hours,” Derek counters.

“That’s plenty; I’m fine,” Stiles replies firmly.

“Don’t push yourself too much,” Isaac advises.  “You need to—”

“Shut up!” Stiles barks. “I’m _not_ going back to sleep, dammit. You hear me? I’m _fine_!”

_Clearly you’re not._

There’s an awkward pause after the outburst. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, running his fingers back through his hair as he reins himself back in. “I’m just—I don’t want to go back to sleep—I’m not tired I swear.”

_Liar._

“Then you need to eat something,” Derek compromises.  “What do you want?”

“Well, you know I always want curly fries,” Stiles replies with a smile that’s too forced but still managed to lighten the mood just a bit.

“Okay,” Derek agrees. “I’ll ask your dad or Scott to go.”

“No, wait; I want to see them.”

“You think you’re okay for that?” Isaac wonders.  “I mean Scott’s fine, but your dad—”

“I think I can do it.  I want to see him just be ready, in case I—”

“You won’t,” Derek replies.  “Once you had enough memories, you had better control than any beta I’ve ever seen taught; you can do it.”

“Still—” Stiles starts again, ignoring the praise in Derek’s endorsement.

“We’ll be ready.” 

“Thanks.”

Derek leads the way out the door. Stiles pauses for just a moment in the threshold and looks back at Isaac.

“Look, if whatever we are was a thing you did just because I was falling apart and needed something, I appreciate the hell out of it,” Stiles says, looking almost embarrassed, “and I’m sorry but I’m gonna need you just a little bit longer, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Isaac promises with a reassuring smile, taking the hand Stiles has reached toward him and lacing their fingers together.

_I’m here as long as you want me to be._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also going to go ahead and say now that this is supernaturally inflicted psychological trauma, so all bets are off and I'll be taking liberties as it suits for the plot, not necessarily following the usual PTSD stuff.. :) sorry I'm not sorry?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not fluff
> 
> arm yourself to proceed accordingly

The minute he lays eyes on his dad, Stiles knows he didn’t need to worry.  He couldn’t hurt Dad; he lied about all this werewolf shit for months because he never wanted to hurt Dad.  Keeping Dad safe and alive matters more than anything, but even one glance shows his father’s been hurt whether Stiles wished it or not.  He’s aged too much, more than Stiles would have thought possible.  He’s got that tired look he carried after Mom died, and Stiles is going to find and throw out every bottle of whiskey in the house as soon as he gets the chance because there’s no doubt he’s been at it since Stiles disappeared.

It takes three steps to close the space between them; Dad meets him halfway, wrapping Stiles in an embrace and holding on like he’ll never let go, and Stiles would be just fine if he didn’t.  Waking to know Dad a week ago was wonderful, the joy of discovering something he hadn’t known he lacked.  This though, this is different; this is the absolute miracle of regaining something Stiles never thought he’d have again.

_I thought I was going to die there, Dad. I thought they were going to kill me, and I knew that was going to kill you. I’m sorry, so sorry. I thought I was protecting you by not telling you. I thought I could keep you safe—keep you out of it—but all I did was lie and disappear and put you through hell, and I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really, really sorry.  For everything._

He wants to explain it all; to apologize properly, even though nothing he says will ever be enough, but it’s all he can do to choke out the first, “I’m sorry,” before his dad is shushing him, hand cradling the back of Stiles’ head in his hand as he holds him even tighter.

“All that matters is your safe now, Stiles,” Dad assures him, voice breaking.  “That’s _all_ I care about.  You’re safe, and I’m in it with you now; we’ll deal with it together, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you so much, kiddo,” he adds, pulling away and giving his son a watery smile. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Dad.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It takes so long for him and Dad to pull themselves together Stiles is almost embarrassed. _Almost._ He’s willing to give himself a general grace period during which he figures as long as he’s not a babbling, crying, incoherent blob on the floor it’s still an acceptable reaction to this shit.  He’s not sure how long this level of function is going to keep going as the memories sift through his mind.  He’s trying to keep them tucked away, to be fully analyzed later, letting himself just ride the moments of I-know-this-but-don’t-remember-all-the-details that are coming now his heads filled back up.  Besides, he’s pretty sure the others don’t give a damn how emotional he gets and long as he’s moved on from the trembling shadow of himself he’s been the past week or the God-awful cowering shell he was before that.

Still, he’s got to start getting at least some things straight before he goes crazy trying to halfway piece it together on his own.  As much as he owes Derek and Isaac for the past two weeks, it’s Scott he wants to talk to now.  It’s Scott he trusts to give him the story and not coddle him.  Moreover, there’s no way to ask “how the fuck did you manage to make everybody a pack?” without hurting Derek’s feelings, and given that Derek’s apparently pushed past the anger— _that’s apparently at himself not the world? What the fuck with the Kate Argent thing? Holy shit. Add that to the list of things I can process right now_ —enough  to develop a sensitive bone or two in his body, Stiles doesn’t want to deal out any verbal slaps to the face.   Plus, while there’s tons of ground to cover before they even breach the Derek vs. Isaac issue, when that time does come, he’ll need Scott, not those two.  It’s just better all-around to talk to Scott and not here; even if they weren’t surrounded by werewolves who can easily hear the conversation, he’s itching to get out of the house anyway.

“Can we go for a drive?” Stiles asks Scott.  “I’ve been cooped up to long. I just need some air and some time to think.”

_Ask your alpha. You need permission. What are you thinking? Scott’s not your alpha. Derek comes first._

“Sure,” Scott agrees as Stiles struggles to tune out the conditioned voice in the back of his mind.

“You sure you feel up to it?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay; I just—I need a little time.”

 _I need a lot of time. I need a whole fucking lot more time than I’m going to get today, but I’ve got to start somewhere._  

It’s clear the others are hesitant to let them go.

_Don’t say no, Derek. I don’t know if I can fight you yet. I don’t want to have to try. It’s going to be hard enough to go without asking direct permission._

“We’ll be fine,” Scott promises with a smile, pushing for what he can see Stiles needs. “We’ll call if we need anything.”

He takes his keys from his pockets and heads toward the door.  Stiles moves to follow, but the voice screaming in his head is winning the battle; he grudgingly turns back to look at Derek.  He flexes a fist in frustration that he needs this.

_I won’t ask. I’m not asking._

_But I can make it a statement._

“I need you to tell me I can go,” Stiles says as assertively as he can manage. “If you don’t, half of me’s going to be freaking out the whole time I’m gone, and I won’t focus on the shit that I need to sort through.” 

_Please just do it. It’s fucking embarrassing enough that I genuinely need to hear it._

“Of course,” Derek replies immediately.  “Whatever you need to do, Stiles. Whatever you want to do.  Blanket permission for everything. You don’t have to ask.”

“Thank you, Derek,” he replies, the automatic gratitude out of his mouth before he can stop it. _Oh, hell no, I am not a fucking perfectly programed robotwolf. Not anymore._ “I mean—” Stiles tries again, “I mean—thanks or whatever.” 

“No problem,” Derek says graciously pretending not to have noticed the conditioned response.

“Don’t wait up,” he adds with a smile, distancing himself farther from the programmed beta he’s been as he follows Scott out the door.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They don’t speak as they drive to the nearest burger joint.   Once they’ve loaded up on fries and burgers to-go, Scott heads out, taking all the turns toward their usual hangout on the reserve.  Stiles couldn’t be more supportive of that decision.  He half wishes he’d snagged a bottle of whiskey to bring like usual, but that wouldn’t lend itself to understanding anything; he’s not sure it’d do him any good anyway with his new werewolf metabolism.

There’re literally hundreds of questions running through Stiles’ mind.   He’s not sure where to even start. He sorts through them the whole ride there, and, by the time they’re getting out of the car, he’s decided he just needs the basic facts to begin with.

“So how long was I gone?” he asks as they walk up the hill.

“Three months, three weeks, and two days,” Scott replies, “not that anyone was counting.”

“Aw, you missed me?”

“Most days,” Scott teases.

_God this was what I need.  I need you to pretend we’re picking up where we left off even if I’m so damn far from okay it scares the shit out of me. I need this to be like every other weirdo conversation about the supernatural that we pretend is normal._

“So what geriatric hunter blackmailed you into Derek’s pack this time?”

“You were around for a while; you saw him. We were all working together pretty well with the alphas swarming around.”

When they’d met to talk with Derek and Argent the first time, Stiles had called it the “Ben Franklin approach”: unite or die. Maybe the fight against the alphas wasn’t a full on revolution, but the concept was still relevant.  They’d sucked up most of their differences, especially the werewolves, and fought side by side to keep each other and everyone’s families safe as they could.

“So you decided to make it official and join the pack?”

“He’s not as much of an angry jackass as he used to be.”

“True.”

“Jackson made it official too; he wasn’t going to risk falling to Omega power.  Then, with Allison keeping her distance, Lydia following Jackson to Derek, and you gone, there wasn’t much to keep me from falling to omega anymore. There’s enough free rein with Derek.  It works.”

“It’s worked pretty damn well this past week,” Stiles comments.  “Or was that just to make me feel better?”

“No, not _just_ for you.  It’s the first time we’ve all been on the same team and not facing imminent death.  We actually had a chance to do normal pack shit.  You were just a good excuse.”

“At least I was good for something.”

_While I was single-handedly worrying the shit out of everyone I care about by being a pathetic, nearly helpless basket-case._

“Hey, come on. You couldn’t help what they did.  If anything, it’s on us because we should’ve gotten you back sooner.”

 “If I don’t get to feel guilty, you don’t either,” Stiles replies, “enough with the puppy dog eyes.”

“Stiles, I swear we looked for you everywhere.  I tried to—”

“Don’t, Scott,” Stiles commands.  “I mean it. Stop.  I know you tried to get me back. I’m back now; that’s the end of it.  No apologies.”

Scott obliges, though he can’t control his big, sad eyes apparently.

“How’s Dad?” Stiles asks, steering the conversation to new ground. “He kind of looked like hell.”

“He’s as okay as can be expected,” Scott replies honestly.   “We checked on him and everything while you were gone.”

“We?”

“Yeah, dude, everybody.  I mean, mostly me ‘cause he knew me the best, but everybody tried to check in.  We crashed his place for dinner and stuff every so often.  Mom said it was good for us to keep noise in the house.” Stiles must look too sad for Scott’s liking because he teases, “You know, it really says something about how fucking loud you are when it takes four werewolves, a teenage diva, and my mom to compete with the silence.”

“Shut up,” Stiles replies, but he grins just a little for Scott’s benefit.  "You better hope I don't tell Lyida you called her a diva."

"Lydia? No, no, I meant Jackson," Scott quips back.

Stiles can't hold back a laugh at that; it feels good. 

_God I missed this._

“Who gave him the werewolf talk?”

“I did,” Scott says, “when we couldn’t find you after a few days, and he was getting ready to follow some goose-chase lead to Arizona.”

“Bet that was a fun conversation.”

“He took it better than my mom did.  I figured he’d at least shoot me when I shifted or whatever, but he didn’t. I honestly think he went into like shock or something.  He just kept staring at me even after I shifted back.  Then eventually he said, ‘well, at least it isn’t drugs’.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of Stiles. 

“I angst for _months_ about how he’ll respond to hearing there are werewolves in Beacon Hills and I run with them, and he says ‘at least it isn’t drugs’?”

“Guess he figured helping your lycanthropic friends _is_ kinda better than finding out you were cooking meth,” Scott replies with a shrug.

“Yeah, I guess.”

_But I’m pretty sure once he doesn’t think I’m balancing on the edge of sanity there’s still going to be a not-so-fun conversation about secret-keeping._

Silence falls between them again, but it’s comfortable; it’s nice even, not awkward, not filled with the constant worry in the back of Stiles’ mind that’s been so present for—God, was it _only_ four months?.

“So like—” Scott says when he finally breaks the silence. “—like are you, okay, dude?”

Stiles grins at the question because it’s just _so_ Scott it’s awesome.

“I mean—I know you’re not _okay_ okay, like this is some fucked up shit and everything—of course you’re not okay—but like—mostly and stuff. You okay? ‘Cause I wanna help.”

“I’ll get there,” Stiles replies. “Might need to borrow your shovel to help get through this shit,” he adds.  _So much shit to deal with. Seriously. I’m like right on the brink of being in over my head._ “And you’ll have to help me find an agent when I figure out how to spin this into a gripping and moving inspirational teen novel series with a movie deal, but I’ll be fine.”

_Eventually._

“Think I know who the love interest is going to be,” Scott jokes. 

“Yeah, maybe.”   _You don’t even know the half of it, dude_. _That is a clusterfuck I don’t even want to begin thinking about._

 “Hey, if it bugs you, I can talk to Isaac if it’s awkward and you don’t want to or something,” Scott offers dutifully, misreading Stiles’ reaction to the statement.

"Isaac’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay, good.”

 “Did he go along with it just because I was losing my shit?” Stiles wonders, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

 “Kind of?”

“Awesome.”

_Add pushing Isaac into a pseudo-relationship built on pity to the growing list of mortifying occurrences in the past two weeks._

“No, I just mean he wasn’t so sure you were in any shape to date—” _Okay,_ _accurate._  “—but he didn’t want to say ‘no’ and backtrack the progress.  He’s legit interested though if you wanna actually try it out now that you know everything and all.”

“Seriously?”

“Swear. I—uh—I kind of talked to him about it.”

“You talked to him about it?” he can’t help grinning at Scott’s embarrassed face.  “You totally gave him a Dad talk or something didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want you getting hurt. You were doing good, but you were pretty shaky, dude, and I—”

“It’s cool, Scott. I get it. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So he said he’d legit be interested? Didn’t see that coming?”

“Me either but hey congrats on that I guess?  You can give it a shot.  Silver lining right?”

“I mean what’s a little trauma if you come out the other side with a boyfriend, right?” Stiles jokes.   _Or two of them? What the fuck even? Can we please talk about something else?_

"How’s things with Allison?” Stiles asks, diverting the conversation.

“Eh, about the same.  I met her for coffee once last week.  It’s only been two weeks since the alpha threat went away.  She says she’s still ‘processing everything’.”

“And Derek allows that?”

“It’s none of Derek’s business.”

“So he doesn’t know?”

Scott shrugs. “He knows I still like her.  It could work out.”

_Not if you’re expecting him to let her be around pack.  He’s never going to trust an Argent with anything about his pack again; I can just about guarantee it._

But now’s not the time to argue the point, and it’s also not Stiles’ baggage to share.

“That’ll be some good entertainment,” Stiles says instead.

“Fuck off.”

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles’ absence shouldn’t have this much effect.  Derek shouldn’t be waiting anxiously for the two to return. He shouldn’t be so worried about what Scott’s saying or if he’s explaining it well enough or if he can handle it if Stiles has a flashback or a million other things that might go poorly with Stiles so recently back to full memory status.  He should be glad that Stiles wanted to go someplace, glad Stiles is fighting the conditioning by demanding rather than requesting permission, glad he’s coherent enough to even begin sorting through the stuff he just got blasted with.

But mostly he’s just worried sick.

_Jackson’s right; I’m turning into a Mom. This is such bullshit._

"Dude, if you don’t stop pacing, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Isaac quips. 

“Yeah, well, if _you_ don’t stop drumming your fingers on the table, I’ll nail them down.”

“Good to see your usual charm is still there for the rest of us under the careful demeanor only Stiles seems to deserve.”

“Fuck off.”

"There’s nothing to worry about. They’re fine,” Isaac says, confidence forced. “Right? I mean it’s Scott. It’s his best friend. They’re fine. It’s good.”

“Exactly,” the sheriff chimes in, but he looks just as frazzled as Derek and Isaac. 

_Oh my God we’re all fucking pathetic._

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“Storm’s coming,” Scott comments.

“Gotta love summer weather,” Stiles replies as the thunder rumbles off in the distance.

“You ready to head back?” Scott asks.  “Or go to my house and chill if you don’t want to go home? I’m down for whatever.”

“My house is fine,” Stiles replies with a shrug as the first few drops of rain start to fall.  “They’re probably worried. I’ve had them all freaked and high-strung for a while now.”

“Dude, Derek’s gotten kind of adorable with you,” Scott jokes.  “If it wouldn’t make you an asshole, you could give him _so_ much hell for finally being all nurturing and shit this week.”

“Yeah, he’s been great. Isaac too. It’s just—”

“Not the two in the pack you would’ve expected to step in for you?”

“Not exactly, no.”

Scott shrugs. “As long as somebody could help you, that’s the main thing, right?  I mean, I was clearly too much of a bad influence,” he adds with a grin.

“Yeah, that’s never going to stop being weird.  After all the shit I’ve gotten us in over the years, genuinely thinking _you_ were the one who was the trouble-maker.”

In the next minute, the light rain gives way to a torrential downpour.

“Ah, fuck!” Scott shouts over the next peal of thunder as he sprints toward the car. “Run!”

“ _Run! Run for me, beta! No shifting. Human limits. Run like you mean it, or I’ll give you a real reason to be slow.”_

_Immediately obedient, he runs for all he’s worth, pushing to be faster this time, to get farther than before, give the chase this Alpha wants, the chase the Alpha desires.  He’s a good beta. He can please his Alpha.  He can. He will._

_Faster. Faster. Faster. Not caught too quick or you’ll be sorry. Faster, beta! Faster for your Alpha!_

_His heart hammers in his chest, pulse echoing in his ears as he runs. He’s stumbling. He can’t get traction. He’s not fast enough, and the Alpha catches up in minutes, just minutes and he feels the first grasps brush at his arms as he fights to be faster. No, no, no. Can’t be caught yet. This will never be acceptable. This isn’t enough. If he catches me now this is going to be bad, very bad._

_"Please, Alpha, I can do better!  I know you deserve better!” he cries desperately as he’s tackled from behind and pinned; he’s not naïve enough to believe he warrants mercy after such a pathetic display of prey play; he tenses as he waits for the stab of the Alpha’s claws as the Alpha holds him down to be claimed.  When the piercing pain doesn’t sear through his shoulders, he dares to keep begging, “Please, Alpha, please!” he continues. “Please, let me try again! I can do better for you, Alpha! Please let me try! Please!”_

“STILES!!! IT’S ME!!! IT’S SCOTT!!!”

As jarring as the transition back is, he almost sobs in relief, tension leaving him as he realizes no pain or punishment will come. 

_Scott. Just Scott. Scott because I’m safe. I’m okay. I’m safe._

Scott loosens the hold enough to flip Stiles over, kneeling beside him.  Stiles blinks against the rain as lightning flashes behind his best friend.  Scott’s still got a tight grasp on his shoulder, but he isn’t hurting him. 

“Scott,” he repeats lamely, willing the panic to subside as he tries to collect his thoughts.

“Yeah, dude, it’s me,” Scott repeats, breathless from the chase.  “Sorry if I scared you, but you—”

“Lost my shit and starting bolting through the woods?” Stiles finishes for him.  “Pretty sure I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Scott insists.

“Thanks for stopping me.”

“No big deal.”   Scott replies, rising slowly.  “Come on; let’s get out of the rain.”

He reaches a hand down, and Stiles can’t stop the full-body flinch even though he _knows_ Scott won’t hurt him. 

“Sorry, sorry, my bad,” Scott says. “I didn’t mean to spook you. I should know better—”

“No, _I_ should know better,” Stiles counters angrily, sitting up.  “I _do_ know better.  Before I was confused as hell and conditioned like crazy, I didn’t know any better. Now, I’ve got the memories back. I know you’re not going to hurt me. You’re by best fucking friend.  I shouldn’t shy from something as normal as you offering me a hand up. I’m supposed to be _me_ again.”

_But he’s in here with me, the terrified little wretch the alphas made into the ideal beta. He’s in here, too, and he won’t shut up. He won’t listen to my reasoning._

“Give it time,” Scott says.  “Things’ll get back to normal soon enough.”

“Normal?” Stiles repeats with a mirthless burst of laughter.  “Four months of being carved and beaten and raped and stripped of _everything_ I was before so they could turn me and rebuild me out of nothing but fear and terror and obedience and pain.”  He closes his eyes against the angry tears welling in his eyes.  “Nothing after that is _ever_ going to be ‘normal’ again, Scott.”

“Stiles—”

“Don’t,” Stiles bites back.  “Just don’t.  I just—I can’t—I’m done.  It’s too much. It’s enough for today. I can’t think anymore.” 

_I’ve reached my limit of rational reactions for the day.  I want to go home. I want to veg out. I don’t want to sort through anything else or deal with any of this shit.  Can we go back to the part of the day where I thought coming out here for a bro talk would be an awesome, chill step forward? and not an embarrassing, horrifying flashback-induced misstep that pulls me back toward the cowering shell of a human I hate?_

“We should get out of the fucking rain; the others will be worried if we’re not back soon,” Stiles continues.  “Come on.”

He starts back to the car, leaving Scott standing speechless in his wake.

_Who was I kidding? I thought I could just come out here and hang with Scott and fall back into the rhythm of everything like nothing happened? I thought I was going to block out four months of hell and just be the same old Stiles? Seriously, who did I think I was kidding?_

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“What’re you doing here?” Derek asks when he opens the door to see Lydia and Jackson instead of Scott and Stiles.

"Great to see you too,” Jackson replies as they push past Derek into the house. 

“Moral support,” Lydia replies, “and brownies,” she adds.

“We shouldn’t overwhelm him,” Derek says.  “I told you not to come until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, I want to see him for five minutes now that he’s got his memories back.  If _he_ tells me he’s overwhelmed then I’ll happily leave as soon as _he_ wants.  In the meantime, have a brownie and get over your protective Alpha complex.”

“Lydia—”

“I’m not going to throw anything at him he can’t handle,” she replies, “I know it’s not the night to talk about anything and everything; I really do just want to see him.”

It’s as close to promising not to talk about the kiss as she can get without being too blatant and drawing attention.  Derek relaxes a bit, but still isn’t sure if this will be too much for Stiles.  Who knows what Stiles and Scott have been talking about all this time? Who knows what state he’s going to be in when he gets back? They shouldn’t push too much.

_So what if I’m developing a protective Alpha complex? He needs protecting.  He’s been through hell._

Not thirty seconds after Lydia takes a seat on the couch and commandeers the remote, Scott’s car pulls in the drive.  Derek looks out the window through the rain, trying to gauge Stiles’ disposition.  He doesn’t like what he sees; Scott sprints to the porch, trying to be in the rain as little as possible while Stiles climbs out of the car and walks calmly and slowly to the house despite the fact that he’s getting soaked.  Isaac meets them at the door and Derek hovers in the entryway.

“How was the talk?” Isaac asks too brightly when the answer is written clearly on Stiles’ almost vacant expression.

“Good,” Stiles replies in monotone.  “It was fine.”

“You okay?” Isaac asks worriedly.

“Stupid question,” Stiles informs him as he brushes past Isaac.

 _What the fuck happened?_ Derek wonders with a glare to Scott who just shrugs.

“I—uh—I think it’s just a lot to take in, ya know?” Scott says.

“Understatement,” Stiles replies with a nod. He looks at Derek. “I want to cook something; can I?” he says, apparently too weary to care if he seems subordinate. 

“Sure,” Derek consents readily.  “Anything you want.”

 “Thank you, Derek,” Stiles replies automatically, and, if it was bad to hear before, it’s a million times worse now.

_You’re supposed to be you again. You seemed better. You cursed at me and called me Sourwolf.   What happened?_

The old Stiles who was showing through before seems to be hiding beneath this auto-pilot mode now.

_He’s probably just trying to keep his shit together.  If he’s cooking, he’s coping.  He just needs time.  That’s all. He’ll be better tomorrow._

Lydia’s standing now, but she’s not sure what to do.  Jackson’s at a loss as well. This isn’t what they were expecting when Derek told them Stiles had his memories back.  Not that any of them should bother trying to predict anything in the first place.  Stiles glances over at them as he walks past on his way to the kitchen.

“I won’t hurt you, Lydia,” he promises with a weary smile.  “It’s good to see you guys.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He’s worrying them, but he can’t stop to care.  He just needs to _do_ something. He needs an occupation before he loses his shit completely. He’s drowning in the anger and frustration and confusion.  He needs to retreat into a task and not think.  It’s the wretch’s way of managing, but the wretch and Stiles are the same person now so it’s going to be Stiles’ way of dealing too.

Lydia’s hovering at the edge of the kitchen.  The others are whispering about him in the den, but he’s not really listening.  Scott’s telling them what happened at the reserve.  Stiles doesn’t need reminding how fucked up he is.  He looks to Lydia and hates the pity shining through the tears in her eyes.

“Stiles—”

“I’m okay,” he lies to cut off whatever conversation she’s trying to start.

He crosses the kitchen slowly and grabs her hand, tugging her back to the counter with him.

“We’ll make your favorite. Come on.”

She keeps his left hand tightly in her right, choosing to move as his other hand rather than let go.  She holds the cup as he measures, steadies the bowl as he stirs, opens the oven so he can set the tray in.  He doesn’t talk, doesn’t think, just lets the task take over and keep him moving because the only other escape is sleep, and he knows what waits there.  This is easier. This is better.  This is safer.

Lydia tires eventually. He can feel it as her movements slow when his don’t.  She still doesn’t let go, but she should.  Stiles lets go for her.  He pulls back to the surface just long enough to give her a one-armed hug and a smile he knows must be pathetic.  Then he sinks back into the blessedly simple rhythm.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Stiles,” Isaac says gently. 

“We’re almost out of sugar,” Stiles replies absentmindedly, probably meaning it to be an explanation as to why he’s writing it on the grocery list on the fridge.

“Stiles, it’s three in the morning.”

_And you’re scaring the shit out of us._

“I’m not tired.”

“You need rest,” Isaac insists.

“I’m not tired,” he repeats, his mantra for the past several hours.

“Stiles, come on,” Derek pleads.  “You _have_ got to get some rest.”

_He’s right, dude. You’re dead on your feet._

“No,” Stiles replies, but it’s not the defiant tone he gave Isaac; it’s downright pitiful.  “No, no, no, please, don’t do that, not you, Derek, please,” he whines, backing away from them.  “Not from you, Derek.  Don’t make me do things when you know I can’t fight what you—”

“Fuck, Stiles, that wasn’t—that wasn’t an order. I just—I just meant you _need_ sleep, not that I’m gonna _make_ you.  You don’t—you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Derek finishes with a helpless look to Isaac.

Isaac doesn’t have an answer for this any more than Derek does. 

_What’re we supposed to do, Stiles? Let you go ‘til you drop?_

“I don’t want to.  I’m not tired,” Stiles insists again, but his eyes are drooping.

“ _Please_ , Stiles,” Isaac implores, “Just a few hours.  It’ll be okay.”

“No, it won’t.”

“You can’t keep this up.”

“I can try.”

“You need sleep.”

“No.”

“Stiles—”

“ _No_.”

“If you stay exhausted, the symptoms will never get better,” Isaac insists.  “You _have_ to let your mind rest or it’ll just get worse.”

He’s used the argument a million times already, but this time Stiles wavers just a bit.

“Please, Stiles,” Derek begs. 

Stiles looks back and forth between them, blinks getting slower and slower as soon as he pauses his movement.  He’s practically asleep where he stands.

“You’ll stay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Isaac promises.  “Me and Derek upstairs with you.  Scott’ll be down here on the couch near your Dad just in case. You’ll be safe; everyone’ll be safe.  You can sleep.”

Stiles considers the proposition for a few moments more, but he must know he can’t fight sleep much longer. 

“Okay.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek follows as Isaac half carries Stiles up the stairs.  They don’t even bother trying to get Stiles to change, just shuffle him to the bed. Isaac climbs under the covers next to him, but if Stiles is back to a point where he can’t ignore Derek’s orders, no way is he getting in bed with Stiles; Derek takes the floor on the other side instead.

“Derek?” Stiles says, the name slurred by exhaustion.

“I’m here; I’m staying.  I’m gonna sleep on the floor. There’s not enough room for all three of us.”

Stiles forces himself back to sitting and starts to scoot off the bed, pulling Isaac with him by the hand.

“What’re you doing?”

“Need both,” he mutters.

“Derek, just get on the bed,” Isaac urges.  “Come on, Stiles. Lay back down.  Derek’ll squeeze in. It’ll be fine.  He just didn’t want to crowd you.”

“Not crowded,” Stiles counters sleepily, lying back down as requested, “Safe.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees as he moves to join them on the bed.  “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Stiles agrees sleepily finding Derek’s hand as he _finally_ drifts off to sleep.

_Please just let him rest. Please let the nightmares stay away this time. Just for a little while._

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_“I am your Alpha, Stiles. You obey me,” the man declares as the blows rain down.  “I am your Alpha. Say it.”_

_“You’re not my Alpha, whatever the hell that even means!  You’re a fucking psycho beating the shit out of a kid to feel tough! Just leave me alone!”_

_“I could kill you, right now, you little shit,” the man snarls, pulling Stiles up from the floor by his throat.  Stiles fights to draw breath through the strangling hold.  “I should just kill you. I should rip your intestines out and let you wear them like a necklace for a few seconds as you die.  Then I’ll take your pathetic, mangled body and dump it on Derek’s doorstep.”_

_He releases Stiles and watches with a grin as he crumples to the floor, gasping and coughing._

_"I don’t even know anyone named Derek.  What the fuck is wrong with you?”_

_Clearly what’s wrong with his captors is that they shift into some kind of monster—werewolf? How is that even possible?—and they really, really hate some dude named Derek and they really, really get off on being named as Alpha._  

_“He doesn’t even remember his pack. How is it his instincts keep him loyal?” his current torturer asks his cohort who’s been watching from across the room._

_"It’s not that he’s still loyal to them; it’s that you haven’t convinced him to be loyal to us. Maybe you’re losing your touch,” she suggests._

_“I am NOT LOSING MY TOUCH!”_

_"Ooooo did I strike a nerve?”_

_"I’ll break him.”_

_“You better turn him first.”_

_“Why?”_

_"Look at him, you idiot.  He’s not going to take much more of this human, and he’s no use as a hostage if he’s dead.”_

_“And if the bite kills him?”_

_"Spirit like that? and he’s a teenager.  It won’t.”_

_You want to turn me? Make me a werewolf too? Oh, hell no. I did not sign up for this bullshit._

_He knows he won’t get far.  He’s far too damaged; he doesn’t know how damaged exactly, but he knows he’s no match for a fucking werewolf._

_He tries to run anyway._

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles gets almost four hours of sleep this time before they have to wake him from the nightmare.

“Let me go!” Stiles shrieks as he flails. 

He breaks free of Isaac, but Derek grabs at Stiles’ arms and holds him back as he continues to try in vain to free himself.

“You’re safe, Stiles. Stop it!” he orders. 

Stiles stills in Derek’s grasp.

“I’m good,” he says, breathing heavily from the struggle. “I’m awake. I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Stiles turns toward them.  Derek doesn’t understand the fury that seems to be building in the gaze until Stiles bursts out with, “Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Isaac wonders.

“Like I’m some poor, pathetic little wretch to be pitied. I’m not!”

“Sorry,” Isaac says immediately. “We’re worried; that’s all.  We’re just—”

“Well, whatever you’re thinking just—just stop,” Stile replies.  “I’m going downstairs.”

They follow him down, and he makes a beeline for the kitchen and starts pulling out ingredients. 

_At least he didn’t have to ask permission this time? But please don’t let this be a repeat of last night._

Derek wants to go help, but it’s pretty clear Stiles isn’t in the mood to deal with anyone.  Instead he and Isaac join Scott in the living room.

“He any better?” Scott asks drowsily.

“Kind of.”

No sooner have the words left Derek’s lips than there’s a roar of rage and an almighty crash from the kitchen.  They all three rush in to find Stiles shifted and hurling baking supplies and dishes everywhere.  

“Stiles?” Scott asks.

Stiles looks over to take in the sight of the three of them standing uncertainly in the entryway.  He shifts back to human, but the fury is still radiating off of him.

“I’m fine,” Stiles replies through gritted teeth.  “I’m fucking fine.”

“Dude, just _talk_ to us,” Scott says.  “Don’t take it out on the baked goods,” he adds, trying desperately to lighten the mood.

“No, I _am_ going to take it out on the goddamn baked goods,” Stiles retorts, reaching for the piles and piles of cookies from last night; he starts slamming them into the trash one plate at a time as he continues,  “Because this is _exactly_ what they taught me to do. This is what they wanted me to do. Be a good little beta. Learn to cook. Learn to clean. Learn to blow. Learn to fuck. Be a good little beta. Don’t think. Just obey.  Be a good little beta, you little shit!!” 

He turns back to face them, tears of rage coursing his face.

“Well, I’m NOT! You understand me? I’m _not_ a good beta! I never wanted to be a good beta!! I don’t give a flying fuck if I’m a good beta!! I didn’t listen to them! I didn’t give in! I fought! I fucking _kept_ fighting the whole goddamned time—even when I didn’t know what the fuck was going on or why the fuck there were werewolves or who the fuck any of you were—I never stopped! I _still_ gave them shit and tried to get away, and I _fought_! I. Did. Not. Break. You hear me?!”

He looks away, running his hand through his hair as he draws a shuddering breath and keeps going, “But _I_ wasn’t the one they trained.  By the end of it _I_ was gone and there was just an empty puppet without enough left inside to do anything but listen to them and believe them and fear them.  It wasn’t really _me_ in therebut it was still my brain they conditioned.  It’s still fucking seared in my mind, and I _hate_ it.  I fucking _hate_ it so much, but I can’t get it to go away.  You see how fucking confusing that is?” he asks, eyes pleading with them to understand.  “To _know_ I didn’t let them break me, to not remember breaking and then to wake up so fucking broken that it’s all I can do to even function?”

Standing here helpless, looking at what they’ve reduced Stiles to, Derek feels absolutely shattered.  He’s bites the inside of his cheek ‘til he tastes blood to keep his facial expression in check; he knows too well what Stiles meant before when he demanded they stop looking at him with pity. Derek wracks his brain for any response at all that could possibly make this better.  Isaac and Scott are clearly at a loss, but Derek finally lands on an idea.

“I could try and block some of it,” he offers.  “I’ll learn to—”

“No,” Stiles interrupts.  “No, don’t—don’t _ever_ fuck with my memories, Derek. No giving. No taking. Nothing. Not ever. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Derek agrees quickly. 

“I mean—I mean I appreciate the ones—the ones you did before, but just—just—I don’t care how bad these are, I am what I am, and I’m not letting anyone tweak me ever again.”

“I get it,” Derek assures him.  “It makes sense. I just thought—”

“I’m just going to have to deal some other way,” Stiles replies, closing his eyes as he continues to compose himself.  He glances around the kitchen, “Like taking it out on the baked goods,” he suggests with a weak smile.

And just like that, Stiles is pulling himself back out of the mire of trauma, forcing one foot in front of the other.

_This is why they had to strip your memories, Stiles.  Even when you’re on the brink, you pull yourself back.  They never could’ve broken you otherwise. They would’ve had to kill you._

“Do we have to take it out on _all_ the baked goods?” Scott asks, jumping in with the joviality.  “’Cause I kinda want to keep those brownies Lydia brought.”

“The brownies can stay,” Stiles allows with a grin, clearly grateful someone’s willing to move on from his rant and feign normalcy with him.

“You can do something besides cooking to distract yourself,” Isaac says. “Video games or—”

“I want to go to the pond,” Stiles says, looking to Derek.  “We’re going to the pond,” he asserts, the way he tenses just slightly giving away the anxiety bossing his alpha brings.

“Yes, sir,” Derek replies with a mock salute that he’s pleased to see draw a huff of laughter out of Stiles. 

"Some big tough Alpha you are," Stiles scoffs.

Derek rolls his eyes in reply, but he's smiling.  "I'll call Lydia and Jackson," he offers. 

“Awesome,” Stiles replies, still mostly smiling though it’s clear he’s still sorting through all kinds of shit in his head. 

_You’ll get past it, Stiles. You’ll keep fighting. We’ll help you. It’ll be okay._

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I'm an evil bitch of an author, drawing you closer and getting your guard down with all that fluff just so I can blast you with angst from a closer range. Something tells me you'll forgive me. and, as always, happy endings eventually!
> 
> General notes:
> 
> Scott and Stiles talk: it was longer than what you saw on-screen, but all just to the ends of helping stiles understand where/how the pack is now and all...probably a few more questions about things while he was gone...probably some mundane "how've the Mets been doing?" Stuff...
> 
> The alphas; their motivation for doing what they did is, on the surface, that they wanted a hostage and to mess with Derek; as for the extent of what they did, there is no logic behind doing shit like that to a teenager. They're just power-loving, sick, psychos entertaining themselves.
> 
> Stiles' recovery: another reminder that Stiles' trauma is not going to be text book; it's going to be plot-serving.
> 
> The relationship clusterfuck: They'll talk about the relationship stuff eventually I swear, but one day at a time, Stiles has a lot to deal with
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	17. Chapter 17

Stiles is in the back yard perched on the tire swing, pushing himself lazily with one foot.  It’s been a full day for everyone.  They spent the whole morning at the lake, wasted away the afternoon with some video games, and finished the night off with a movie.  Stiles has been pounding back anything with caffeine all day, clearly hoping it’ll give him a boost to stay up longer.  Isaac just went to sleep a few minutes ago. He, Scott, and Derek are more or less taking shifts.  As much as they know Stiles needs the rest, they can also understand his aversion; there’s not a whole lot they can do short of Derek giving an Alpha order, which is _not_ going to happen, or sedating him, which is a little extreme at this point.    

After a while, Derek reaches in the fridge for a couple cokes and heads out the back door.  The caffeine in this won’t really do anything anyway, not with a werewolf metabolism, but it buys the trust that Derek’s not just trying to talk Stiles into sleep which is the first step toward and actual conversation at this point of the night.

“Thirsty?” he asks offering the coke.

“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles replies automatically.  “ _Goddammit_ ,” he mutters. “I haven’t done that all fucking day and—”

“You’re tired, and I caught you off guard,” Derek replies.  “You revert to default.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want that to be my fucking default.”

“Give it time.”

“Maybe you should boss me around more often so I get a little rebellion practice in.”

_I was trying to be nice._

“Seriously, I hate how careful you are—I mean, not _hate_ because it’s good, it helps a lot—but I’m not _quite_ as breakable as you and Isaac think I am.  Besides, it’s _extra_ weird coming from you two.”

“At least Jackson’s about the same,” Derek comments.

“Yeah, but he’s trying too hard to be,” Stiles replies.  “I could tell today; he was forcing it.”

“He’s also actually slightly less of an ass now so he’s going over the top a little for you.”

“You’re nice to me; you’re calling Jackson less of an ass; you come out here to keep me company and bring me caffeine I know isn’t working but makes me feel better; who the hell are you and what did you do with Derek Hale?”

_You know, when everyone goes on and on about how weird you are when you do nice shit, it’s not much incentive to keep doing nice shit._

Derek shrugs in response.  “I wasn’t _that_ bad before,” he argues.

“No,” Stiles agrees to Derek’s surprise.

He yawns widely and takes a large gulp of soda.

“Yeah, you’re definitely not sleepy,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

They sit in silence a few moments more.  Derek contemplates pushing the swing for Stiles, but the slower pace he’s got going on his own is practically rocking him to sleep. Best not disrupt it.

“I meant what I said before,” Stiles says after a little bit of silence.

“About what?”

“You should boss me more so I can practice rebellion and drown out this little fucker screaming in the back of my head that I have to respect you.”

“Drop and give me twenty,” Derek obliges with a smirk.

“Fuck off,” Stiles replies to the command, but he’s grinning.  “See? Good practice. You’ll miss that quiet, polite obedient Stiles in no time. ”

“No, I won’t,” Derek replies somberly.

 _I will never, ever miss that.  I missed you. I missed this. I missed being cursed at and called Sourwolf and arguing until I thought I was going to strangle you.  I missed the hell out of it, Stiles. Like you don’t even know._     

“You say that now,” Stiles counters trying to break the sincerity.  “Just wait.”

“I won’t ever miss that ,” Derek repeats insistently, unwilling to go along with this joke. 

Stiles stops swinging long enough to look him in the face properly.

“You actually missed me?”

“Of course I fucking missed you. What the hell kind of question is that?”

_How could you think I wouldn’t miss you?_

He sees the debate of how to respond running through Stiles’ mind; he wonders if Stiles will decide on a smartass quip or something more serious, but, in the end, Stiles retreats from the moment completely.  He just shrugs and starts swinging again.

“We should have pancakes for breakfast,” he says nonchalantly.

“Nope. We’re having cold anchovy pizza,” Derek counters.

“Shut up,” Stiles replies, and Derek’s rewarded with another smile.

_Practice makes perfect._

Half an hour later Stiles finally reaches the point of exhaustion where he’ll allow Derek to help him to bed.  He’s out within two minutes of his head hitting the pillow, tucked safely between Derek and Isaac.

           

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They do make blueberry pancakes for breakfast. 

Stiles is deliberately cooking his own way and not how he was trained—haphazard measurements, sloshing batter around, he even starts a mini flour fight in which not even Derek is afforded mercy—and it’s good to find a way to keep the alphas from taking this from him.   He can still cook. He’ll still do Wednesday dinners; hell, maybe more often than that now that Dad knows about everything and the pack’s okay hanging out. It’s be kind of awesome, even if Stiles is pretty sure they’re all just on their best behavior for his benefit.

As they’re cleaning up after breakfast, Isaac drops the spoon out of the batter bowl on the way to the sink. Stiles gets down on his hands and knees to grab it from where it’s disappeared under the edge of the counter and hands the spoon to Isaac.

_Peter grins down as Stiles offers the fallen pepper shaker._

_“So helpful,” Peter says, putting the shaker down and running a hand through Stiles’ hair. “Such a useful beta.”_

_“Thank you, Peter.”_

_Taking advantage of the proximity, Peter reaches to unbutton his jeans as he uses his grip in Stiles’ hair to pull his head forward. Stiles needs no more encouragement.  He frees Peter from his jeans kissing and licking a while before he swallows him down, trying not to choke as Peter begins to fuck Stiles’ mouth in earnest._

Stiles snaps back to the moment gasping for air.  He scrambles to his feet and makes it only two steps toward the sink before the first upheaval of bile splatters across the kitchen tile.  He gets to the sink before the next wave hits him, image of Peter smiling down at the sight of Stiles on his knees still seared across his mind when he closes his eyes. 

 _So much for the nice pancake breakfast,_ he thinks as he turns on the faucet to wash the vomit down the disposal.  He rinses his mouth out and splashes water on his face before he turns to face the others. 

“It’s cool; I’m good. No worries,” Stiles says, forcing a smile at the four worried faces staring back at him.  “As you were, peasants,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You sure?” his dad asks worriedly.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m good.  Go finish breakfast if you’ve got any kind of appetite left.”

As Dad and Scott retreat back to the dining room, Derek grabs a towel from the counter and moves to help clean the floor.  Isaac reaches for the mop.

“Dude, no way!”

“What?”

“You are _not_ cleaning up my puke.  I’m a big kid. I can clean up after myself.”

“I don’t mind.”

“ _I_ mind.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m serious. I don’t need coddling. I don’t need your help!”

“Stiles—”

“Derek, I swear to God if you and Isaac don’t get the hell out and let me handle my own shit, I’m going to wolf out and start throwing punches.”

_We’re at least going to pretend that I can do this without you two.  Even if I whine for you and Isaac like a little kid when the nightmares are imminent, we’re going to pretend I can be independent the rest of the time._

“Fine,” Derek complies tossing the towel back on the counter.  “Clean it yourself then.”

“We’ll be out back if you need anything,” Isaac adds.

“I won’t,” Stiles replies firmly.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************8

           

“Hey, I’m headed to work,” Scott says when he comes in to put his plate in the sink as Stiles finishes cleaning up.  “I’ll see you—”

“Actually, could I come with you?”

“To work?”

“Yeah, I could help or whatever.  I got cabin fever like you wouldn’t believe, dude.”

_And I need to talk to you, but I don’t want to say that with Isaac and Derek in earshot._

“If you really want to,” Scott replies with a shrug. “Doc shouldn’t care.”

“Awesome.”

“You sure you’re feeling up to it?” the sheriff calls from the next room.

“Oh my _God_ , Dad. Incessantly eavesdropping werewolves are bad enough without you joining in too! Cut it out!”

“All I’m saying is—”

“I’ll be _fine._ I need something to do, and I need to get out of the house.  You’re going in to work anyway. _Plus_ I should go bond with my new brethren, the dogs of Beacon Hills.”

“If you start making dog jokes,” Scott says annoyed, “I’m going to—”

“Hey, you can’t say shit about me making dog jokes now,” Stiles replies.  “I’ve got just as much species right as you do, Fido.”

“They’re not funny.”

“They’re a little funny.”

“Seriously, you start in with the dog jokes, and I bring you back home.”

“You are such a killjoy,” Stiles pouts.  “Remind me why I hang out with you again.”

 “Because I’m awesome.”

Stiles scratches his chin, considering. “No, that can’t be it.  Must be something else.”

“Fuck off,” Scott replies with a shove.

“Come on; let’s go before you’re late.”

“Uh—one other thing,” Scott says.  “I biked.”

“Seriously? I’m not jogging to the vet’s.”

“If you’d let me drive the Jeep—”

“No.”

“ _Stiles,”_ Scott whines.

“No way; _I’ll_ drive the Jeep.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the sheriff chimes back in.  “Not while you’re still having flashbacks so often.  Scott drives or you can pull your bike out of the garage and suck it up.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to whine, “ _Dad_ , I can—”

“You are not risking hurting yourself, Scott, or anyone else—or the Jeep.”

“Come on,” Scott wheedles.  “I’ll be _super_ careful.”

This is a battle that’s waged from the moment Scott turned sixteen.  Stiles has honest to God lost count of the arguments and bribes Scott has used to try and get behind the wheel of his Baby.  Though the idea of someone else driving her kills him, he really does need to get out of the house, to talk to Scott, and maybe even make some progress on some other ideas brewing in the back of his mind.  He reaches for the keys off the rack and hands them slowly to Scott.

“Don’t forget she sticks a little in second.”

“I won’t.”

“And if there’s so much as a _scratch_ on her when you’re done driving, I will beat your little werewolf ass. That’s a viable threat now.”

“Dude, it’ll be _fine_ ,” Scott assures him.  “See ya later, sheriff.

“You boys be safe.”

“We will,” Stiles says as they head out the door.  “You be careful at work.”

“Always am.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“This is going to sound really pathetic,” Isaac says as the door closes behind the sheriff, “but what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Derek shrugs.

“What d’you think he wants to talk to Scott about?” Isaac wonders. “I mean—unless you think he really just wanted to go to the clinic?”

“No one _ever_ gets bored enough to volunteer to help clean up dog shit,” Derek replies.  “He’s talking to Scott about us.”

“What about us d’you think?” Isaac asks worried

“You’re right,” Derek says. “You sound pretty pathetic.”

“Fuck off,” Isaac retorts. “You know you’re wondering the same damn thing.”

Derek doesn’t refute the statement. After a moment’s silence, Derek says, “We’re freaking him out.”

“Freaking him out?” Isaac repeats, confused.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“Dude, they are _freaking me out_ ,” Stiles vents as they drive toward the clinic.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

 “Isaac and Derek? They’re just helping, dude.  I thought we agreed the other day that it was good someone's been able to help you?”

“Yeah, but we are way beyond normal ‘just helping’,” Stiles insists.  “I mean Derek Hale just fucking volunteered to help clean up my puke.  What the _fuck_ , Scott?

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“At least agree with me!”

“I mean, yeah, they’ve changed a lot, but I think you’re over-reacting a little.  It’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s a _weird_ thing,” Stiles insists.  “I say again, _Derek Hale offered to clean up my vomit_.  Surly, angry, violent sourwolves and their protégé betas are not supposed to act like that.”

“No,” Scott concedes, “but _family_ is _._ ”

“Family? Me and Derek and Isaac? Seriously?”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Think about it,” Derek continues.  “When he disappeared, I was slamming him into shit and giving him about a million death threats a day, and you barely had occasion to talk to him at all.  He wakes up two days ago with a pretty damn strong bond to both of us—judging by the fact that he wants us to try and help fend off the nightmares—and it’s fucking weird to him.”

“It’s the two different Stileses thing,” Isaac realizes.  “ _He_ isn’t the one who started relying on us; he just woke up trusting the hell out of us and wanting us around.  Guess that would be kind of weird.” 

_I was just glad he didn’t hate me completely.  Plus, I’ve gotten used to feeling needed; it was kind of great that he seemed to still like having us around.  I didn’t think much else about it._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

"Yes, _family_ ,” Scott insists. “You’ve heard them talking about it. They’ve spent two weeks trying to teach you what family means—we all have.”

“Yeah but that was just fluffy bullshit to make me feel better.”

“Wow, congratulations, I think you just passed Jackson on the Asshole Meter.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding. It doesn’t make me an asshole to point out that this pack is about as far from a functioning—”

“You weren’t here, okay?” Scott interrupts, and Stiles is more than a little taken aback by the protective frustration presenting in his voice.  “You were gone—that’s obviously not your fault—but you were still gone.  Four months is a long time, Stiles.  We were pretty damn sure we were going to die before when you were with us, you remember that? It only got _worse_.  We were losing our minds trying to find you.  Then the alphas started targeting people’s families.  They were always after us, and we were barely a step ahead—if that. They had us in total fucking chaos, and we were _losing._ It wasn’t just the usual dread of dying; we were pretty damn sure that it was just a matter of time.  We weren’t just allies by the end of it; we were literally jumping in front of blows for each other.  Sure we won in the end—the hunters helped a lot more than any of us will admit, and  Derek and Jackson managed to take out a couple of the main pack leaders and it turned the tide—but you don’t go through that kind of shit and not get closer.”

“You know _that_ would have been a way more enlightening answer for when I asked you why you joined the pack.”

“Man, you were keeping it light the other day, and I was going with it.  Besides, I figured if you could understand family with half your memories, you’d definitely still get it with all of them.”

 “It’s still weird.”

 “Weird because _they_ want to help you,” Scott asks, “or weird because _you_ actually want to let them?”

 “Both,” Stiles replies.

_It’s just all weird—psychotic break, alternate universe, twilight zone weird._

"Look, if it bothers you, I can say something,” Scott offers, “but I really wish you’d let them keep doing their thing if it’s not going to hurt anything other than your pride.”

“Why?”

“Because I think they need it as much as you do.”

“Yeah, sure they do,” Stiles scoffs.

“I’m serious.”

“What’re you, the pack whisperer?”

“No, but I can tell a fucking huge change in people when I see it.”

“Why would they ‘need’ to take care of me? I’ve just been a major pain in the ass for two weeks.”

“You haven’t been a pain in the ass,” Scott argues.  “You’ve been a cause to get behind that doesn’t involve maiming or running or being terrified for our lives.  As a matter of fact, you were a cause that made it _impossible_ for any of the usual methods we have for dealing with shit to work; they had to figure it out with no anger, no fighting, just having to _deal_ with it; not physically battle it. Fucked up as it sounds, you were good for them.”

“You’re full of shit.”

This _has_ to be exaggeration. It has to be a speech for Stiles’ benefit.  There’s no way caring about him sparked this much genuine change in the two of them.

_I was a burden. I was pathetic. I was a sad broken little thing they had to drag along behind them because otherwise they’d have felt guilty as hell.  They pitied me too much to not try something, but I wasn’t fucking good for them.  I just caused more trouble._

“You know what Derek’s anchor is now?” Scott asks.

“The satisfaction of finally perfecting his patented Broody Alpha Death Glare?”

“It’s this pack; it’s family,” Scott answers solemnly, ignoring Stiles’ jab.

“Derek’s anchor is _not_ this pack as family. No way in hell.”

“I didn’t believe it either at first, okay? But he had to have an anchor to get the memories precise enough to start giving them to you.  Anger wouldn’t work; we tried for days, and it wouldn’t work.  First try once he started focusing on this pack working like a family, on how we survived and stuck together even once the alphas were gone, and that we might actually pull something good out of this shit storm, _first try,_ Stiles, and he had it.  He legitimately wants us all to work as a pack—Isaac does too.  Is it so much of a stretch to believe that? Why wouldn’t they want it? Give me one good reason they wouldn’t want this to all work out.”

 _I can’t_ Stiles thinks honestly. _Hell, Derek’s whole family is dead, so is Isaac’s.  Having a decent pack would be the first good thing to happen to either of them in a while._

“I’m telling you, Stiles,” Scott persists when Stiles doesn’t answer.  “It’s not pity; it’s pack.”

_It’s pack?_

_What’re the chances that we come out of this Alpha Pack pandemonium with a shot at making something work? Like really honest-to-God work? All of us getting along? Everybody working together? Actually functioning like a family?_

He likes the idea of it though—that they weren’t just plastering on smiles for Stiles’ sake, that pancake breakfasts and pond picnics and gaming nights could be a regular occurrence—and, as hesitant as he may be to let his hope run away with him, Stiles nevertheless _wants_ what Scott says to be true.  He wants to see good things rise up from the hell they’ve all been through.

_I think we’ve fucking earned it._

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Maybe we should back off a little bit?” Isaac suggests.  “I mean—he’s mostly fine without us now.  It’s mainly the nightmares and the waking-up-fighting thing.”

_We’ll pretend we have a life outside of making sure he’s okay even though that’s seriously the only purpose in our minds 99% of the time now._

And okay, yeah, the more he thinks about it, the more Isaac can see why Stiles is a little spooked.  This is so far beyond normal, but what about their lives is normal anymore anyways?

“Stop taking time off from the clinic,” Derek advises. “Go back to your regular work schedule.  Go to your foster family’s every once in a while instead of just calling.”

“What about you?”

Derek shrugs.  “I need to pack up the apartment—figure out where I’m moving. I’ll figure out other stuff once that’s done.”

Isaac hesitates before asking, “Have you thought at all about what Stiles said?”

“About what?”

“Rebuilding the house,” Isaac replies.  “Or getting a pack house someplace else if you don’t want to stay there.  It’d be hella expensive I know, but I’ve got some money from my Mom coming when I turn eighteen; Jackson could probably chip in, and—”

“Money’s not a problem,” Derek replies.

“Oh.”  Isaac hesitates a moment before deciding to push, “Then _would_ you want to do it?”

Derek shrugs noncommittally, trying to play indifference as he answers, “I dunno. Why? Do you?”

“I mean, as much fun as it would be to crash the sheriff’s and Melissa’s forever,” Isaac says with a roll of his eyes.  “It’d be pretty cool to have a pack place.”

_And you think so too, don’t you? Come on, Derek. You were constantly telling Stiles that it’s okay to want things. Take your own advice._

“Yeah, guess I should think about it,” Derek replies eventually.

“Dibbs on an awesome room,” Isaac adds with a grin.  “I was here first.”

It’s a fact they don’t acknowledge much, but, while Scott and Stiles may have known Derek longer, Isaac was Derek’s first Bite as an Alpha.  He was first in the pack, the only one left of their original.  He’s the only beta here that Derek picked himself.  It doesn’t make him a favorite, but it makes him a little special, distinct in a good way—at least he likes to think it does.  However fucked up those first few months may have been, Derek _literally_ pulled him out of a grave and gave him a second chance at making his life into what he wanted it to be.  Isaac’s not pretending he’s living the dream, but he’s not the timid teenager stuck under his father’s thumb anymore.  He’s his own person now, with a makeshift family to stand behind him. 

“Fair enough,” Derek replies, returning the smile.  “What’re your plans ‘til Stiles gets home?” he asks.

Isaac shrugs. “Nothing in particular.”

_My life is currently unhealthily centered around Stiles remember? We just talked about this._

“I could use some help packing the apartment.”

“Yeah, I’ll help.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles thanks Deaton for his help as Derek tried to learn memory control.  He remembers the kindness the man showed the night Stiles was left here by the alphas, too, but he isn’t keen to mention that.  Deaton knows they’re grateful.  They’re always grateful, and they’re always a pain in the ass.  Of course, Deaton’s an insanely cryptic source of frustrations in the wrong moments, so Stiles doesn’t feel that bad about it.  He keeps to the kennels and lets Scott and Deaton mind the patients coming in.  It’s not the most riveting, thrilling work in the world, but it’s something to do besides sitting at home.

He’s got another reason for coming too, and he acts on it as soon as Scott and Deaton head to the back to sedate and mend a dog that comes in after being hit by a car.  The supply cabinet’s locked of course, but it’s easy enough to pick.  He’d realized that was a useful skill to have sometime around the age of twelve and prided himself on gaining speed and efficiency at the art ever since. 

Stiles researched the shit out of veterinary sedatives after the Ketamine wore off so quickly with Jackson at the rave.   He’s never been happier of his over-enthusiastic research tendencies in his life. He finds what he’s looking for on the top shelf, there’s only two bottles of Xylazine; Deaton will miss the one Stiles takes for sure, but Stiles is guessing the vet doesn’t get many calls for horses around here.  He’s sure to get busted soon enough, but he’ll take the heat and pay Deaton back for the drugs.  First he just needs some fucking decent rest before he loses what’s left of his mind. 

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“How was the clinic?” Derek asks as he and Isaac walk in.

“Good,” Stiles replies with a shrug.  “The cats fucking hate me,” he adds, “not that I’ve ever really been a cat person anyway.”

“What’d you two do all morning?” Scott asks.

“Boxed up shit at the apartment,” Derek replies. “If I can move it someplace else by the end of the week I won’t have to pay next month’s rent.”

“You know where you’re moving yet?”

“There’s nothing else vacant in that complex.  I guess I’ll shop around tomorrow or something.”

“You could—” Stiles starts hesitantly.  “You could keep crashing here,” he offers.  “I mean—only if you want to—but it’s not like the guest room is going anywhere.  It’d buy you some time to look for a place, and—uh—give me a little more time to adjust?”

_You talked to Scott about us, and he actually made you feel less freaked? Well, I’ll be damned._

“I don’t wanna crowd you.”

“Not crowded,” Stiles replies, repeating his words from two nights ago.  “Safe.”

“You’re sure?”

“Look, I know I spazzed this morning.  I meant what I said and all; I want you two to let me handle my own shit, but, let’s be honest here. There’s still plenty I can’t handle yet. So as weird as it is to part of me that it’s coming from you and Isaac, and as much as I hate admitting how fucked in the head I am, it is what it is.  Don’t feel obligated.  I’ll manage if you and Isaac want to let your stuff get back to normal, but, if you want to stay, I’m damn sure not going to stop you.”

“We’re here as long as you want us to be,” Isaac replies, and Derek nods his agreement.

“Awesome,” Stiles replies with a shy smile.  “Thanks.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac’s gearing up to accompany Stiles through another night of battling sleep when he announces, “So—um—I’m gonna shower, and then maybe see if I can actually get some sleep before the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into a pumpkin.”

“Really?” Isaac asks.

_Because that sounds awfully logical of you._

“Yeah, I mean—I—uh—I have to sleep eventually, right? Might as well get the two hours in now as later.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Isaac replies with a shrug.

Stiles comes in just as Isaac finishes changing into pajamas.  Derek’s hovering by the bookcase, waiting, as always, to be requested rather than just presuming he should join Stiles and Isaac on the bed.  Stiles gets four—maybe five—steps toward the bed before his right knee buckles and he lurches sideways.

“Stiles?” Derek says worriedly, catching Stiles by the arms before he hits the floor.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Stiles replies with a sleepy grin.  “’sall good.”

“I’m serious, Stiles,” Derek replies.  “What’s wrong?”

“’Sokay, just medicine,” he replies speech slurring more by the minute.  “Ima sleep. Don’ lemme hurt aaanybuddy.”

“What did you take?” Derek demands, shaking Stiles’ shoulders.  “What the fuck did you take Stiles?”

Stiles mumbles a reply that’s completely unintelligible.

“What. Did. You. Take?!” 

Stiles head slumps forward as he loses consciousness.  Isaac swears his heart stops as the panic consumes him. 

“I’m getting him under the shower,” Derek says.  “You come look through the bathroom. See if there’s something—a bottle, a needle, anything—to tell us what he took!” Derek orders as he scoops Stiles up to take him down the hall.  “NOW!” he thunders when Isaac doesn’t immediately move.

“I’m calling Deaton already!” Scott screams from downstairs. 

“What the hell is going on?!” the sheriff demands.

_What did you do, Stiles? What the fuck did you do?_

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They just have to angst so they can bond and it'll be lovely and there will be feels for all and just, yeah :) Sorry I'm not sorry for what I'm doing to your emotions
> 
> notes:  
> my research on Xylazine (which is a horse tranquilizer/sedative if you didnt' guess) was minimal...mostly I knew Katamine was a) too weak, and b) can cause hallucinations which no one wants for this Stiles...so yeah, again with the whole going for plot-serving, not medical accuracy thing
> 
> a special shoutout to those of you who left comments last chapter. I was pretty damn burned out there for a moment or two, and your metaphorical hugs and pastries and pats on the back and song mentions helped QUITE a lot :) Y'all rock, all of you!! I'm still stoked people are reading thing craziness!


	18. Chapter 18

The vial is still on the bathroom counter, and Isaac’s been working at the clinic long enough to know what Xylazine is but not how much it takes to do real damage to a werewolf.  Luckily, Deaton gives the reassurance that with Stiles’ supernatural metabolism, he’ll wake in a few hours; the only danger between now and then is the typical potential for some kind of cardiac episode that accompanies sedatives like this, so Scott fetches the portable jump-start from his car just in case.  Needless to say, the shower doesn’t have any effect in waking Stiles whatsoever—it was a panic response anyway until they figured out what he’d taken—so they change Stiles into dry clothes and lay him on the bed to wait.  Isaac and Derek both stay—Derek doesn’t even bother changing for a long time, just sits staring at Stiles with a fucking god-awful look of hurt and anger on his face—but not on the bed with him. The sheriff and Scott keep vigil as well.

_Please let this just about you wanting to get some sleep.  Please don’t let this be something worse. Things were okay. Things were good. Only two flashbacks today. No flinching away from Derek.  Not even an auto-reply.  Please don’t say it was a front long enough for you to get your hands on something._

He doesn’t _really_ think Stiles was trying to kill himself.  There’s been nothing to suggest the darkness in Stiles’ memories is winning. He’s been fighting and trying and throwing out snark.  He did this at bedtime. He was slurring out that it was okay; he called it medicine.  There was no goodbye in his few words to Derek, no note on the counter by the vial.

_But Mom didn’t leave a note either._

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He’s been honed in on Stiles’ heartbeat for hours now, listening anxiously for the slightest deviance, as the fear inside of him melds steadily into anger. Looking around the room only intensifies the anger because, though the sheriff and Scott are clearly worried, Isaac’s _wrecked_ and Derek knows Isaac’s got to be thinking about his mother.

_He wasn’t trying to kill himself. He’ll be okay.  He’ll be okay.  He has to be okay so I give him hell for pulling this shit in the first place—however I’m supposed to do that without totally fucking up progress.  He wasn’t trying to kill himself._

But Derek doesn’t say it out loud because part of him isn’t sure.  Why wouldn’t he just ask Deaton for the medicine? Why wouldn’t Stiles at least _mention_ the idea?

_What the hell were you thinking, Stiles? Even if you weren’t going for the OD, anything could’ve happened! We just got you back and then you pull shit like this? What the fuck?_

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles comes back to the world slowly.  The grogginess slowing the return to waking enough that he has time to remind himself he’s home and safe before he starts shifting and flying toward anything with a pulse.

_Bonus number two of this plan: no mauling Derek and Isaac._

“Stiles,” Isaac says urgently, shaking his shoulders the moment Stiles stirs.  “Stiles, hey, come on. Wake up.”

 “Five more minutes, Dad,” Stiles jokes sleepily.

“This isn’t a game, Stiles.  Wake up,” Derek commands in the alpha tone, and Stiles eyes snap fully open. 

He scrambles to sit before he can reason out any resistance. 

“Derek,” Scott scolds. “Give him a minute.”

 “Stiles, what were you doing?” Derek demands.

“Finally getting some decent sleep,” Stiles replies irritably.   “What are _you_ four doing?” he asks, taking in the sight of everyone staring at him from various places around the room.  It looks like they’ve been here a while.

_What the hell?_

“Sleep?” Isaac repeats, drawing Stiles’ attention; Stiles doesn’t understand the relief in his voice or why he looks so fucking drained.  “You just wanted to sleep?”

“Yeah, figured Nyquil didn’t work on werewolves.”

“Oh,” Isaac says with a nod, Stiles still can’t figure out what wrong with him as he tenses, stands from the bed, and starts walking for the door muttering, “Back in a minute.”

He doesn’t have long to wonder about Isaac because a second later he’s completely distracted by Derek’s response laden with quiet fury, “Werewolf Nyquil? That’s not fucking funny, Stiles.”

“You should have told someone,” his dad adds angrily. “You should have talked to Deaton about it.  You could have overdosed and—”

“Dude, why is everybody so pissed at me?” Stiles wonders.  “I just wanted to fucking sleep. I researched this shit forever ago when we were trying to catch the kanima.  I knew what I was doing.” _Mostly._ “I mean, yeah, I thought it’d take effect a little more slowly so I could tell you guys when I got back in here. I probably should have mentioned it beforehand, but it’s not _that_ big a deal.”

“Not that big a deal?” Derek thunders, and though he’s all the way across the room by the dresser, Stiles can’t help flinching.  “We thought you were _dying_ , Stiles.  You collapsed in the middle of the floor, you were unconscious within thirty seconds. Then we find a vial on the counter where you _drugged_ yourself with shit you _stole_ instead of asking for help if you needed it.  We’ve been sitting here for _hours_ worried sick and monitoring your heart rate in case something went wrong. Tell me what the hell about that scenario is not a big deal?!”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t,” Derek agrees.  “You didn’t think, and it’s glaringly obvious! I’ll say this once, Stiles, _once:_ You are part of a pack now, and your decisions don’t just affect you anymore.  You don’t get to pull risky shit like this on your own.  You knew we might not like the idea, and instead of asking anyone for help, you put your _life_ at risk for the sake of doing it the way _you_ wanted.  You’re fucking exhausted, and you needed to sleep.  I get that, but there is _no_ excuse for doing it in a way that was this insanely selfish.”

“Selfish?” Stiles repeats incredulously.

_I just wanted to fucking sleep. You’re over-reacting._

Though he doesn’t think he deserves this lecture, he’s still shaking slightly at the evident anger of his Alpha.

“Damn right it was selfish,” Derek declares, shoving the computer chair that stands in front of him to the side, and it takes literally every ounce of self-control Stiles has left not to bolt off the bed. “and there is _no_ room for that shit here,” Derek continues ominously. “You don’t get to be that selfish if you want to stay in this pack.  You understand what I’m saying to you?”

His Alpha’s anger combines with the threat of being abandoned and completely overpowers any semblance of control over his conditioning Stiles may have left at the moment. 

_You were selfish. You were wrong. You were bad, beta. Very bad. He should leave you for such selfish, worthless, weak behavior.  Beg, beta. Beg for your place while you can. Beg before he leaves you._

“Alpha, no, I’m sorry,” he laments as he scrambles off the bed and to his knees; the other beta and the human speak to him but he doesn’t listen as he beseeches, “Please let me stay, Alpha, _please_. I didn’t mean to be selfish, Alpha. I—”

“Stiles, stop, please get up,” Alpha requests, and he immediately obeys; terrified that the Alpha looks even more unhappy than when he started speaking.  He looks like he wants to recoil from the pathetic beta before him. 

_Please, Alpha, no. I’ll be better. Whatever you want._

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to scare you,” the Alpha says. “I just—I—”

“Forgot you were talking to an _abuse victim_ who’s conditioned to fear you?” the human demands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

_You dare talk to the Alpha that way?_

He growls as his fangs descend, and he advances on the insolent man.

“Know your place, _human_ , or I’ll teach it to you,” he warns.

_See. I’m a good beta. I know my loyalty. Please, please let me stay._

The other beta shields the human; if he weren’t a superior beta he would strike him aside. 

“No, don’t hurt him.” Alpha commands. “You’re never allowed to hurt him—either one of them. Not ever, you understand?”

“Yes, Alpha,” he complies, stepping back and allowing his fangs to retract. 

“Come here. You’re not in trouble.”

_Yes I am. I was selfish. I was wrong. I was a bad beta. Teach me better, Alpha. Teach me to be good._

“Yes, Alpha.”

He stands before the Alpha head down, trying to control his shaking, and waits for whatever comes next. 

“Look at me, in the eyes.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

He forces his eyes up slowly to meet his Alpha’s.  There’s anger still burning there, but there’s more—hurt, worry, guilt—that he doesn’t understand.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Alpha says again.  “I shouldn’t have had this conversation while I was still pissed, but you scared the ever-loving shit out of me and I lost my temper. I’m sorry you thought I was saying you were out of the pack.  I’m _not._ You have a place here as long as you want it, understand? You _always_ have a place here.”

“Thank you, Alpha,” he replies gratefully as relief washes over him

“Can you remember who I am?”

“You’re my Alpha.”

“Yes, I am, but do you know my _name_?”

Stiles studies the Alpha’s face for a moment, struggling to understand the question before the answer comes from nowhere.

“Yes, Derek.”

“Good,” Derek replies with a small smile.  “That’s good.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“You remember who you are?”

_I’m your beta._

But Derek wants another name, it takes a moment longer to recall, “Stiles.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees. “You’re Stiles.  I want you to try and think like _you_ Stiles, not just like a beta.  Don’t just follow the instincts and conditioning.  Look at the memories? You can still get to the memories right?” he asks worriedly and Stiles doesn’t understand the concern. “Concentrate,” he urges.“Try.”

Stiles closes his eyes obediently, seeking memories though he doesn’t know what the Alpha wants him to see there. In the next instant, the floodgates crash open. His head pounds with the intensity of changing perception.  When he opens his eyes again, Derek’s staring at him fearfully. 

“Stiles?”

“Damn, Sourwolf, you sure know how to scare a guy,” Stiles says, forcing a smile through the residual fear.

“Holy shit,” Derek mutters pulling him into a tight embrace that Stiles isn’t nearly prepared for, but he still hugs back automatically.  “I thought I lost you again for a second.”

“You did, but I’m good. No worries.”

Derek releases him from the hug.  “Seriously. You ever pull shit like this again though—”

“Yeah, got it. More sharing and caring with plans and whatnot.  Sure.”

“Good,” Derek says.  “If you’re really okay, I should go find Isaac.”

“I’m fine. Got Dad and Scott if I’m not.”

Derek nods and disappears out the door, leaving Stiles to face his father and Scott.

“Dad, I didn’t mean—” Stiles starts guiltily.

“It’s okay,” his dad interrupts.  “Derek shouldn’t have been—”

“I freaked everyone out,” Stiles counters.  “Kind of deserved it.”

 _How worked up did I make him for him to lose control like that when he’s been so good? Isaac too? Why are they this freaked?_   

“You didn’t deserve him scaring you literally out of your mind,” Scott counters.

“I don’t want special treatment.  I don’t get free passes on doing stupid shit just because I’m skittish,” Stiles adds.

“That wasn’t just skittish; that was—”

“Can we please not talk about it? It’s embarrassing as hell,” Stiles says, rubbing his forehead tiredly.  “What was up with Isaac, he pissed too?”

“Mostly freaked I think? Pissed to I guess. He—uh—we weren’t entirely sure what you were going for with the shoot-up-an-entire-vial-of-tranquilizer thing.”

“What I was ‘going for’?” Stiles repeats dumbly.  “What the hell else would I—”

The moment it clicks, the worry and anger in all of them doesn’t seem so unfounded.

“Wait—you thought I was trying to _kill myself_? What the fuck?”

 _I couldn’t do that to Dad—not any of you I don’t guess—and if I did it wouldn’t be an OD_. _I wouldn’ve—_

He derails the train of thought before it spirals and focuses back to the conversation.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Scott reasons. “You stole the meds. You didn’t tell anybody what you were doing,” Scott says.  “It crossed everyone’s mind, especially Isaac’s, the more freaked Isaac got the more pissed Derek got and it just—he should’ve have handled it like that but—”

“It really was kind of selfish,” Stiles interrupts.  “Much as I hate to admit it, there was a point in the Sourwolf Lecture Special.”

Scott shrugs.  “You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Understatement.”

“I know, dude.”

_You don’t know the half of it._

“Next time, just ask, okay?” Scott says. “We’ll figure it out with Deaton, and me or Isaac can grab it while we’re at work.”

“You said Isaac _especially_ freaked? Why?”

“His mom died when we were kids; you know that.”

“Yeah, but—”

“She—uh—she overdosed.”

_Oh, fuck._

And suddenly the urgency in waking Stiles and the relief when he said he wanted some sleep make sense.  Guilt surges through him at the idea that he’s the reason Isaac probably brooded on awful memories for hours; it’d be like making Stiles go sit in the cancer ward all day but try not to remember Mom’s death.  He shudders at the thought.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say I have garnered the shittiest pack member award for the day,” Stiles says mournfully.  “Awesome.”

Scott opens his mouth, clearly intent on contradicting the statement, but Stiles moves past him out the door. He’s got some apologizing to do. 

_Maybe I didn’t mean it, but I still managed to share the hell out of the two most taciturn werewolves in the whole pack.  Derek’s right; after the shit they’ve been through with me the past couple weeks, I owe them more than half-baked solo plans and piss poor explanations._

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Derek finds Isaac in the backyard next to the now-shredded tire swing.  There’s a couple claw marks in the bark of the tree too.  He’s leaning against the base of the tree now, taking deep breaths in what’s no doubt an attempt to rein in the rest of his emotions.  Not sure yet what he should say, Derek just takes a seat beside him.  In moments like this Derek remembers why he picked Isaac.  When the world just keeps throwing shit at you, it’s so much easier to just lash out any time anything threatens to hurt you—physically, emotionally, whatever—lash out, get pissed, and it’ll keep the threat away.

But these days, the threat is Stiles; the usual tactics don’t work anymore.

“I’ll get a new one and replace it,” Isaac says eventually.  “I just—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek replies.  “Better than my reaction.”

“Why? What’d you do?”

“You didn’t hear that?”

_Pretty sure I just gave him the same speech my dad gave me when he found out who I was sneaking out to fuck._

He’s actually positive that’s the same speech—give or take a few words to fit the situation.  He’s replayed it a million times since then, knowing now his father was right to react so strongly to the news Derek was getting close to a hunter’s daughter.  Two days of silent treatment from his son later, his father was dead with the rest of them because of the very woman he’d warned Derek about.

  _This wasn’t anywhere near that big a deal; I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me.  Going off on Stiles of all people? Mentioning not wanting him in the pack?  I know better than this._

“I was a little preoccupied,” Isaac says, gesturing to the slivers of rubber in the grass.

“I yelled him into Conditioned Beta Mode,” Derek admits, “but he’s back; he’s fine,” he adds quickly.  “I just feel like shit for it; I should’ve followed your lead and gotten out and just let his Dad yell at him.”

Isaac doesn’t reply.  He’s staring toward the house but not actually looking at anything, lost in his own thoughts.

“So are you—are youokay?”

It’s a lame question, but Derek doesn’t know what else to say. 

There’s silence between them a few moments more before Isaac says quietly, “You know, that was almost exactly what happened the day she died? Dad was screaming for Camden to come upstairs and figure out what she took and Camden was yelling at me to call 911 while they got her to the shower and tried to wake her up.”

_And your whole world went to hell from there._

“I should’ve known Stiles wouldn’t,” Isaac says, “but I didn’t think—none of us thought—Mom would try either, until she did.  Dad always said we should’ve noticed the changes, but I swear I couldn’t tell any difference. No matter how many times I looked back at it.  And tonight I just kept sitting up there going over the past couple days, wondering if we missed something with him—if I was reading the progress wrong and just seeing what I wanted to see—if he’d just been biding time until—”

Isaac wipes embarrassedly at his eyes.

“But he just wanted to sleep.  Makes total sense. I jumped to conclusions like an idiot.”

“He scared the hell out of both of us,” Derek says.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“He should’ve at least said something. How could he be so fucking stupid?”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but when you got me back, you got the whole stupid package,” Stiles replies coming out the back door.  He drops the smile and attempt at lightheartedness when he takes in the two of them.  “But no, you’re right, total dick move,” he agrees somberly. “I royally screwed up, but I swear to God I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that.”

Derek’s guilt intensifies at the chastened looks Stiles has now, but he reminds himself that—though he’d _never_ want to send Stiles back to his conditioning and as much as he _hates_ sounding like his father—Stiles needed to hear the ‘you’re in a pack now’ lecture.

 _We’re in this with you too, you moron.  The phrase ‘pathetically codependent’ comes to mind._  

Stiles sits cross-legged, facing them as he continues,  “I thought the over-protective mode would kick in with all of you if I suggested sedating myself—risk of complications or dependency or some bullshit, and I just—I _really_ didn’t think I could handle some fluffy speech about being patient or the nightmares going away on their own or something. I just needed to fucking sleep.  I wasn’t thinking about anyone else, I was just thinking about how fucking exhausted I was.  It seemed like a quick fix and I went for it. I took it before I talked to you so you couldn’t stop me, but I didn’t think it would work that fast.  I thought I’d have time to explain.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t,” Isaac replies moodily.

It sounds like the reply of a petulant child, but he doesn’t really fucking care right now.

“What if you actually _had_ killed yourself?” he demands, trying to keep the hurt in his voice from turning to fury. “What if you had an allergic reaction?  What if you got the dosage wrong because you were basing it off internet shit? You damn sure couldn’t gauge werewolf metabolism because there’s no research on it, and you didn’t even think to _mention_ it to somebody?”

_What if, after everything, we still lost you?_

“I said I see now that I was stupid.”

“I don’t care if you see _now._ You should have seen it _before._ ”

_You should have thought about us—if not us at least your Dad and Scott. You should’ve talked to your fucking pack; we’re all trying to help you.  We can’t if you don’t tell us what’s going on and what you need help with._

“How did you think we were going to react, Stiles?” Derek asks.  “Even if you had time to explain it before you went under, you drugging yourself to sleep without any warning would have freaked us out, you had to know that.”

“I didn’t think it would bother you _that_ much. I thought you’d just be glad I finally went to sleep instead of needing a baby-sitter until three am.  ”

“Dammit, Stiles, stop talking about yourself like you’re just a charity case; you’re fucking pack!”

_How many times do we have to say we don’t mind? It’s family; it’s pack.  It’s about helping each other out because we want you to be okay, not because you’re a charity case we’re humoring.  You matter, and what happens with you matters to all of us, me and Derek included._

“Derek,” Isaac warns, grabbing his hand to turn his attention away from Stiles, who’s trying hard not to show that he’s quaking.  “Either take it down a notch or the conversation needs to wait.” 

“No, I’m good,” Derek replies. “Sorry,” he adds taking a steadying breath, “Sorry, I’m good I just—”

“Do anger better than chick flick moments?” Stiles asks.

 “Shut up.”

“No seriously. I scared you two, and you got pissed. It’s what you do. I forget—you’ve been pretty chill lately trying not to scare me—which is awesome, so can we—uh—can take that approach again for a sec? ‘Cause no matter how much I may or may not deserve the yelling  thing, it’s going to trigger something or at least have me focusing more on control than the conversation and that kind of defeats the whole purpose of me coming out here.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek’s pleasantly surprised by how grounding it is to have Isaac’s hand on his.  Stiles is absolutely right; he’s way better at anger than actually talking about shit, but he’s sucked it up a lot the past two weeks.  He can do it again.  He’ll keep doing it if it’s what it takes.

“You know we’re supposed to be a pack now. We help you because we fucking care, not because we feel bad for you.”

“I know,” Stiles replies. “That doesn’t mean you guys all have to weigh in on every decision I make. I might be adjusting, but I’m still capable of—”

"It’s not about that,” Derek interrupts.

“Not about what?”

“This isn’t about you needing help or being the weak link or any of that you keep talking about.”

“Then I’m missing something.”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, clearly a little annoyed.  “You are.”

 “So explain it to me, because I don’t—”

“You keep talking about this like we’re just biding time until we can get away from you, but we’ve already said we’re not going anywhere.  We kind of intend for this whole—” Isaac gestures vaguely to the three of them “—friendship or comradery or whatever the fuck you want to call it to keep going unless you don’t want it to.”

“You realize you’re not the only one in new territory, right?” Derek adds. “How many people do you think I’ve gotten close to and cared about since—” _Kate_ “—since the fire? Now we’re making rope swings and spending tons of time bonding the pack and even talking about rebuilding the house and it’s just—it’s a fucking _lot_ okay? It’s good, but it’s a lot to take in.” He keeps going before he can think about how pitiful this sounds, “I gave up on this shit a long time ago, but Isaac pulled me into the idea when he started talking about using family as an anchor, and then with you wanting family so damn badly, I just wanted us to be able to give it to you, and I know it can be good—it’s been good—and I really want to think all this will keep working.  But half the time I’m just trying like hell to convince myself this is worth the fucking risk when _everybody_ around my dies, do you get that? _Everybody._ So when you go and pull this bullshit—dose yourself up on something without so much as a second thought to the dangers to yourself or the effect that could have on the rest of us, put yourself in danger when you should be safe and recovering and I have my guard generally down—it seriously fucks with me, you get that? I know that you’ve got a lot of shit to sort through, and I’m not saying my baggage should be your problem, but you just—you can’t pull half-baked shit like this anymore. _That_ ’s what I meant about not being in the pack before, not that you wouldn’t deserve a spot, but that _I_ can’t handle this kind of reckless shit from you—or anyone—if we’re going to try the whole pack as a family thing.”

“Derek, I didn’t realize—”

“Because this time it turned out fine. This time nothing happened, and you were fine.  But if this was a risk during an attack, or—”

“Or not waiting for you to call back before I followed a lead on the Alpha Pack,” Stiles interrupts, seeing exactly where Derek’s train of thought is headed.

Derek still has the voicemail.  _Hey Sourwolf, I think I might be onto something.  Call me back when you get this, and I’ll tell you where to meet me._ He’s listened to it a million times since then, learning later that it was the last thing anyone heard from Stiles before the Alphas took him, wondering what happened in the seventeen minutes that lapsed before Derek checked the message. 

“Losing you once was enough,” Derek says with a nod, “and we were barely what you’d call friends, much less pack or family, so if something happens now, now that we call this a family and I feel responsible for you and I care a whole fucking lot more than I have in a long time—I just—” _I would be so beyond wrecked it’s scary to think about._ “—just—losing you once was enough, okay? I’m not doing it again.”

He can’t quite read the look on Stiles’ face well enough to tell if he’s moved or freaking out again, so to be safe he confesses, “and I _know_ this sounds fucking pathetic.  We’re freaking you out caring so much after two weeks; you think it’s really fucking weird to hear this shit coming from me; I get that, but—”

“It’s not weird that you don’t want to lose people,” Stiles replies solemnly.  “Nobody wants to lose people.”

There’s a moment or two of slightly awkward silence between the three of them before Stiles continues, “and you know, if you’d _tell_ me shit like that—that you’re worried about losing people, that it worries the hell out of you to go out on a limb with the pack—then I’d actually know how much pulling something like this would bother you.  I thought I’d get a stern frown and maybe a curse or two.  I had no idea—” _That Derek Hale is a total fucking sap these days?_ “—I mean, I had an _idea_ but I—I’ve kind of assumed I’m reading into things with you two because you helped before the memories came back. I figured my perception’s just skewed.”

“It’s not,” Isaac says.  “I mean—yeah these past two weeks catalyzed the hell out of it, but we’re not just bullshitting you because we think you’re some delicate rose petal that can’t get damaged.  This is the only family we’ve got, you get that? We’re trying to make shit work.”

_Jesus Christ we are so soooo very pathetic. And Stiles thinks he’s the one who’s been weak lately._

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, “I do now—just—just  seriously don’t bury shit like this.  You say I need to talk to my pack and say what I need? Well, that goes for you guys too. Fucking _talk_ to me, _especially_ because I’m not at a point where I’m going to pick up on things and be able to check where you guys are right now.  I’m kind of distracted by all this other insanity at the moment, and I’m gonna need a little help from your end so I don’t do this again and feel like a god-awful friend—let’s just—we’ll shoot for more communication all around?” He looks at them with a teasing grin and says, “However excruciating that thought might be for you two.”

_I’d do more for less. If that’s what it takes to keep you from going off with half-baked plans that risk your life._

Both Derek and Isaac nod their agreement.  Something’s still bothering Stiles though, and they don’t have to wait long before he breaks the silence again.

“So I just—just one more time,” Stiles says apologetically, “none of this—the pancakes and the video games and the swings and all that—you were legit enjoying it? Not just playing along for my benefit?”

“As hard as it may be for you to believe,” Derek replies, a little annoyed, “we _like_ doing normal shit that doesn’t involve running for or lives or trying to kill things.”

_We are, in fact, fairly normal underneath the baggage—as normal as anyone in this pack gets at least. Is it really such a stretch to believe?_

“We are well aware that you’re pretty much okay now,” Derek continues, “and if we didn’t want to hang out and do shit with you, we’d ditch you and leave you to Scott.”

“But we don’t—won’t,” Isaac adds. “Because the past week’s been pretty fun all-in-all, as fun as it could be given the situation anyway.”

“I keep waiting for the Twilight Zone music to start playing any time now.”

“Fuck off,” Derek replies grumpily. 

He knows it’s just a Stiles kind of reaction, but he and Isaac are going sentimental to the extreme here; a _little_ seriousness wouldn’t go amiss.

“Okay, cheap shot, sorry,” Stiles says.  “Defense mechanism.  It’s a lot easier to keep classifying this as weird than to start expecting it and have it go away.”

“We’re not going away,” Isaac replies exasperatedly.  “That’s the whole point of emphasizing pack, dumbass. You’re stuck with us.”

Stiles grins at that.  “You’re stuck with me too.”

“Good,” Derek says. “Can we roll credits on this chick flick now? Pretty sure I’m at my limit.”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

They did talk to Deaton about the potential for Stiles to use a sedative of some sort to get the rest he obviously needs.  Regardless of the other issues with the plan, it was clear to everyone that Stiles was handling the world a lot better the day after the first dosing, no doubt thanks to the several hours of decent sleep.  In the end, Deaton recommends they use the sedative in ever-decreasing doses to ease Stiles into sleeping on his own. Five nights in, the plan seems to be working—Stiles is still sleeping well enough even though the doses go down—and it’s apparent he’s doing much better for it.  The flashbacks are getting a little less frequent.  The auto-replies are pretty much gone.  He’s still halfway off the bed by the time he fully wakes, but he’s not lashing out, just startled.  Add to that the fact that it seems to finally have settled in Stiles’ mind that Derek and Isaac spending time with him _isn’t_ some huge sacrifice on their part, and it’s been a damn good few days.

“Jumping jacks. Go,” Derek instructs out of habit as he walks into the den and plops on the couch next to Stiles who’s watching one of the procedural cop shows he like to point out all the errors in. 

“I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request, O Annoying Alpha,” Stiles replies with the usual grin.

He probably does need the practice as much anymore, but it’s the easiest, surest way Derek’s got in his arsenal to make Stiles smile; he never passes it up.

“What’s up with you?” Derek asks.  “You’ve been distracted all morning.”

“School starts back in two days,” Stiles replies.  “Scott mentioned going to registration tomorrow.  You know I’d honestly forgotten about school?”

“You’ve been a little distracted lately.”

“I’m supposed to be a senior,” he continues, “but I didn’t even finish junior year. Even if I could handle going back, I wouldn’t be able to pick up where I left off.”

“You’re smart enough to catch up.  You could work something out with the school maybe; your dad’ll talk to the counselors.”

_And I’ll make a couple death threats if they don’t listen._

"We both know I can’t risk school.  I can’t even go to the fucking grocery store yet.  The flashbacks are too sporadic.  I’ll hurt someone or expose what I am.  It’s not worth it.”

“There are other options.”

“Like what? Homeschool?”

“Yeah, why not? They’ve got online shit—or we could get you a tutor or something.”

_Not that I’ve thought about this extensively and researched possibilities or anything.  Personally I think you should go for the online schools they’ve got going now; there’s one out of Sacramento with good reviews, but if you want an in-person teacher, we’ll find you one.  Just getting your GED works too—it’s what me and Laura did and we were fine—but I think you should do some kind of real school.  It’ll be good to have something semi-normal._

“Once the flashbacks get manageable you can go back without being behind or you can graduate with home school stuff and wait ‘til college to hit mainstream again.”

“Dude, forget college for now; let’s just concentrate on getting all of us through high school for the moment.”

“Fair enough.”

_It’s no small feat really, though the start of the semester should hopefully go better than the end of last year.  Rogue Alpha. Kanima. Alpha Pack. It’s a wonder they were even alive to sit for finals, much less pass—barely—well, Lydia was fine._

“I’ll research shit tonight I guess. Go over it with Dad.  Talk to Ms. Morrell.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“Three seconds to challenge my right to the last peanut butter cookie,” Stiles says impishly as he comes in the den.  “Going once, going twice…”

Isaac takes the bait and jumps the couch to start the chase. It’s something else Stiles suggested like fake commands from Derek—playing tag, playing lacrosse, just little moments like this—to start overshadowing memories of alpha chases with fun ones. None of the others ever really try to win—except Jackson who’s too competitive to willingly lose—but they generally give enough challenge to serve the purpose.  Stiles darts back down the hall, hiding around a corner to tackle Isaac when he comes running past.  They tumble over into the guest room, and Stiles comes out on top, pinning Isaac to the floor in victory.

“You’re pathetic,” Stiles informs him as he rolls off Isaac, sprawling on the floor next to him.  “At least _pretend_ you’re trying to win. Now I’ve got to split it with you as a matter of conscience.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t mind; I had like a million of them yesterday anyway.”

“Dude, it’s all yours.”

“Don’t make me shove this cookie down your throat.”

 “I don’t even like peanut butter. It’s really fine.”

Stiles rolls on his side to look at Isaac.

“What do you mean you don’t like peanut butter? You always eat the cookies, and you had some of that pie thing I made.”

Isaac smiles embarrassedly as he shrugs, staring determinedly at the ceiling rather than Stiles.  He’s biting his bottom lip just a little, presumably trying to figure out how to admit he’s clearly just been eating them for Stiles’ sake, and it’s so fucking adorable Stiles is moving the few inches to meet Isaac’s lips before he can think better of it.  For a moment, one moment, it’s as simple as it always was, slow and sweet and—

and then every worry about this whole relationship clusterfuck floods Stiles mind and ruins it.  For the first time, he’s the one who breaks away. The anxiety starts to build with the realization that he’s not going to be able to avoid these issues anymore.  He can’t pretend he just wants either of them as a friend.

“Stiles?” Isaac asks, confused.

“Sorry,” Stiles says.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine—just—” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, frazzled, as he tries to figure out how the hell to have this conversation. 

“Flashback?” Isaac assumes.

“No—no—just— _fuck_ —um—okay—okay, so—so there’s pretty much no good way to say this.”

“Say what?”

“We can’t—I can’t—this is—this is really fucking complicated.”

“What? Us?”

“Yes—no—kind of.”

“You know you’re not really making sense, right?” Isaac says. “Whatever it is, it’s fine.”

_No, it’s really not._

“Just spit it out.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, stalling for every second, before he replies, “So—so before all this shit went down—before the alphas took me—I—uh—I—I kind of made out with Derek.”

“You _what_?”

“But I didn’t remember it, obviously I didn’t—or I wouldn’t have started this with us before I figured out that thing with him—and when the memories came back, I kind had enough other shit to sort through that I kinda just shoved it in the back of my mind for the most part until—until now I guess.”

“You made out with Derek?” Isaac repeats, clearly still absorbing the information.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Yeah. I know it this is coming out of left field, but it happened and I can’t do _this_ until I figure out _that._ You get what I’m saying? It wouldn’t be fair to anybody.”

“It’s cool; I get it,” Isaac replies, trying to ignore the sensation that he’s been punched in the gut.

To say he’s blindsided would be a gross understatement.  He’s recognized that Stiles might pull away now his memories are back, recognized that Stiles might not be ready for anything beyond friendship with anyone for a while, and recognized that even _if_ something happened it would probably need to move at a glacial pace.  He never in a million years would have guessed that _this_ was the first obstacle they’d have to move past.

_Okay, so Stiles didn’t remember, but why the hell didn’t Derek bother to say anything?”_

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Derek says from the doorway, startling the two betas apparently too preoccupied to hear him come in.  “It was just a fluke.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 _I should’ve stayed on the goddamn porch_ Derek curses mentally as he sees Stiles’ face fall in reaction to the words.

“What?” Stiles asks, the look of hurt evident on his face.

 _I should’ve stayed on the goddamn porch_. _I should’ve made noise when I heard what they were talking about. I should’ve done this different._

But Derek’s here now, and, one way or the other, this is how this conversation was always going to go.  There were a million reasons this was a bad idea then; there are a million new ones now.  Best to clear the air, nip in the bud, and let him and Isaac be happy with whatever they end up being.

“We thought we were going to die,” Derek replies.  “Adrenaline and all that—it happens.  It doesn’t need to complicate anything.”

Stiles looks like he might throw up. It’s glaringly apparent that, whatever Derek may have convinced himself of in Stiles’ absence, Stiles considers it just as meaningful as Derek does—did. Whatever.

“It wasn’t a _fluke_ ,” Stiles insists. “Don’t say that to me.”

“Stiles—”

“No, just stop—we’re not—I’m not—I can’t do this right now. I can’t.”

He’s on his feet and out the door without so much as a glance back.  Derek’s almost glad; he doesn’t know what the hell else he was going to say.  Isaac gets to his feet, fixing Derek with a knowing gaze.

“You are so full of shit, Derek.  You don’t hook up with people for the hell of it, or you would’ve fucked Erica a hundred times over.  If you kissed him back, you meant it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to him because you think it’ll make something easier. That’s not doing anyone any favors.”

“I’m not lying; there’s nothing to figure out between me and Stiles.” _Except how I’m going to deal with watching you two get close when I can’t._ “It was one time, and it’s done.”

The sound of the front door closing snaps their attention elsewhere and has them both headed out to the den.

“Stiles?” Isaac calls. 

“Fuck,” Derek mutters.

_He’s in no state to be out by himself on a good day, much less already worked up._

He’s sitting out in the Jeep, but he’s not leaving.  Derek knows for a fact the sheriff’s got even set of key to it hidden until Stiles is cleared to drive. 

_He just doesn’t want to be in here with us._

Stiles pulls his phone out to call someone.

_Scott?_

“Stiles? Everything okay?” Lydia wonders from the other end.

“Can you come pick me up?”

The misery in Stiles voice stabs through Derek.  He fights the urge to go out there and apologize until he’s blue in the face.   Anything to get that sound to go away.

_It’ll be better in the long run. Isaac’ll be better._

“Yeah, of course, what’s wrong?”

“I’m okay; don’t worry—I just—could you just come?”

“Be there in ten.”

“Thanks, Lydia.”

He glares back up to the house.  “You’re being creepy as hell, you know that?” he says, statement clearly directed to where Derek and Isaac stand watching him out the front window.  “Fuck off and give me two seconds to deal with my shit.”

“Sorry,” Isaac says quickly, moving to go back into the den.

Derek’s slower to leave, part of him still dying to blurt out the truth whether it ruins everything or not.  Stiles keeps glaring, and, eventually, Derek turns away.

 _Anger’s okay_ he decides. _Be pissed as you want, Stiles. Just don’t be broken by it.  Be pissed a while and vent to Lydia and then be with Isaac._

_You’ll be happier with Isaac._

If it were anyone else, Derek would lose the battle to take the high road, but Isaac’s good with Stiles. He knows what to say when Derek just spits anger.  He retreats to vent his frustration while Derek erupts and scares Stiles into a relapse.  Isaac will be good for him; Isaac will be good _to_ him.  Stiles will be good for Isaac too.  It’ll be better this way.

_It will be.  They’ll see it too eventually._

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says gratefully as he climbs into Lydia’s car.

“What happened, Stiles?”

“I just need to get out of the house and talk for a second, okay?”

She must hear the _need to get out of earshot_ underneath the statement because she doesn’t say anything else until they’re five blocks away.

“So what’s wrong?” she asks again, “Because you know I keep a pretty pink pistol in that glove box, and I am not afraid to load up the wolfsbane bullets.”

Stiles smiles just a little at her excellent defensive friend reaction, especially because she’s the kind of girl who, if she _really_ thought they’d done something to deserve it, actually would charge two werewolves armed with her pretty pink pistol and barely bat a carefully-curled eyelash.

“My life just got a whole fucking lot more complicated,” Stiles replies.

“Isaac vs. Derek debacle?” she guesses correctly.  “It had to happen sometime,” she tells him when he nods.  “Tell what happened; start at the beginning.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“So what the hell do we do now?” Isaac asks as the car drives away.

“What d’you mean ‘what do we do’?”

“About this—about Stiles—I mean, I wouldn’t have done anything if you’d fucking _said_ something but—”

“If I’d _said something_? What the fuck was I supposed to say, Isaac?” Derek demands.  “Tell you so you wouldn’t be with him? That either means you tell him the truth, which he couldn’t have understood or you’d have to lie and say you didn’t want him, which would have hurt him _and_ you.  There was no good reason to tell—it would’ve just fucked things up.”

“So you opted to fuck them up later rather than sooner?”

“Exactly.”

Isaac sees the logic whether he wants to or not.

“Regardless, I didn’t fucking know, and I went for it, and I’m not giving it up just because you got there first.”

“I’m not asking you to give it up; I’m trying to get out of the fucking way.”

“Well, excellent job with that—walking in in the middle of the conversation.”

“You’re a fucking werewolf; you should’ve heard me coming. The conversation was always going to go that way no matter when it happened.  I don’t care what you think about how true it is.  What happened with Stiles is done. He’s with you now; that’s all there is to it.”

“You don’t get to just match us up, dude _._ ”

“Well, I’m not making him choose.”

“You can’t choose for him.”

“Then what the fuck do we do? Huh? How the fuck do we skate past this like it’s not the huge clusterfuck that it is? I’m trying to make this easier for everyone—”

“It’s not about making it _easy_! It’s about making it _work_!”

“It’s _not_ going to work! It can’t! He can’t have us both, and I’m not making him pick.  I’m not shoving that on his plate along with everything else, and I know you don’t want to either.”

_Goddammit what am I supposed to say to that? I want him to pick me; of course I fucking want him to pick me.  That doesn’t mean I want you to fucking lie every day for the foreseeable future and have to watch me be with him in the same damn house.  You can’t tell me you could take that for long.  You’d be out of here; you’d be avoiding us; I’d always be wondering if he’d rather have you.  He’d resent me for it. Then I’ll lose both of you by the end of it, and I can’t fucking handle that shit!_

“We can’t pick for him; we can’t ask him to pick,” Isaac repeats dejectedly.  “So I’ll ask you again: what the hell do we do now?”

           

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Lydia drives to Starbucks.  They park, and she listens, saving up her opinion for once he’s done. 

“So I don’t know what I’m freaking out about,” Stiles finishes finally. “I mean, if it didn’t mean anything to Derek, then that’s that I guess, right?.  Nothing to figure out before I could keep going with Isaac.”

“You’re freaking out because you don’t believe any more than I do that Derek doesn’t care about you.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t _care_. I’m saying he doesn’t want to—”

“Stiles, he does, but he’s spent the last few weeks doing nothing but making sure you’re okay.  He’s trying to give you and easy out to be with Isaac because he wants it to make you happy. He doesn’t want to make you pick. I talked to him before your memories came back and—”

“What did he say?”

“He said it was a fluke,” Lydia replies, “but methinks he doth protest too much.

  There’s something besides friendship there whether he’ll admit it or not.”

“Or he really just doesn’t want to be with me.”

“He _does_.”

“So what if _we_ think that? _He_ still says he doesn’t.  There were plenty of reasons he wouldn’t have wanted me before,” _we’ll cross human and virgin off that list and add about a solid billion new arguments he’ll use instead._ “He damn sure won’t ever go for it now when he’s worried about his weird Alpha mojo over me,” Stiles says despondently.  “Plus I’m not even sure I want him to go for anything because then what the hell about Isaac? It’s been pretty fucking awesome with him—definitely not opposed to a reprise of where we were a week ago.” _And then some._ “But more than that he’s been awesome this whole time—patient and supportive and more—” _vulnerable_ “—open than I ever thought he even could be.  That’s not something I’m ready to give up.  I just—what the hell am I supposed to do? Let Derek lie and martyr himself so I get to have Isaac? Or throw Isaac away to try and chase Derek?”

“I can’t answer that for you; that’s something you’ve got to decide for yourself.”

“Some relationship Yoda you are.”

She rolls her eyes in reply.

“I just _really_ don’t want to fuck this up.  I’m already damaged as hell, and they are too to one degree or another.  We’ve got more than enough to deal with right now; we’ve been doing okay while we can take it together though.  Maybe it’s better if I just—just tell them both that I’m not ready for this shit yet?  That way the pink elephant in the room goes away, the boat doesn’t get rocked any more than it has to, and we can keep figuring things out all three of us just as friends or whatever.”

“For the record, there’s nothing wrong with not being ready, especially after everything you’ve been through,” Lydia tells him, “but don’t use that as an excuse just because you know it will keep them from arguing with you,” she continues. “You want someone; I know you do.  You keep talking about making new memories to overwrite the bad ones, and God knows you’ve got plenty of bad ones that a good relationship could help drown out.”

“I’m not stirring up shit for the sake of _using_ one of them to get good memories.  I’m not that selfish; I’m not that desperate for good memories. The friendship’s more important; I’ll worry about memory-serving hookups later and find them somewhere else.”

“When you’ve got two people who care about you and want to help, you’re going to go off and find random people instead?” Lydia asks disdainfully. “Rock solid plan there.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t you be a martyr either.  They care about you. You should be with one of them.”

“Even if I pick between them and it works out with one, I’d have to give up the other.”

_And I need both. I want both._

It’s something he doesn’t understand entirely, but he knows it’s the truth.  Once he stopped fighting the tendency to gravitate to Isaac and Derek, things between the three of them have only gotten easier.  That closeness of the first couple weeks back with the pack hasn’t faded.  It’s perpetuated. 

_They talk to me now—really talk and open up and get vulnerable, even just for a minute or two here and there—we all feel needed and have people who need us—it’s a give and a take and it feels awesome—the bond just keeps getting stronger, and I want it to stay that way._

“You wouldn’t have to give up one of them. Neither of them is going to walk away completely because you pick the other; they want you to be happy,” Lydia says.  “They’d understand.”

_They’d try, but it’d still be some level of infidelity there between me and whoever I don’t pick.  I’m not driving in that wedge._

 “Maybe I wouldn’t lose them _completely_ , but it’d definitely fuck up whatever good stuff has been coming together with the three of us because it’d end up with someone as third wheel. It’s kinda awesome how things have been working, and there’s a helluva lot of potential.  I’d rather be just friends with both of them than risk losing either, especially right now.  I’m _not_ going to try and pick.”

_I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to._

"I’ll tell them I’m not ready.  They’ll take a step back.  We’ll go back to how things were the past few days.  It’ll be fine.”

“Stiles—”

“It’ll be _fine._ ”

“It’s your choice to make, but I don’t think it’s the right one. I think—”

“I made up my mind, okay?” he interrupts.  “I don’t know what other option there is.  There’s not an answer for this.  You know that as well as I do.”

“Fine, no more talking about this. What d’you want to do then? You don’t want to go home.”

“No,” he agrees.

“I’ve got a hair appointment in fifteen minutes; you can come with me, as riveting as that would be for you or—”

“Just drop me at Scott’s.”

“You should catch him up too, you know.”

“There’s nothing worth telling because nothing’s going to happen.  It’s fine.”

 “Sure it is,” she replies with another roll of her eyes as she starts the car again.

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Lydia comes flouncing up the front walk; her face is set with purpose.  Isaac has the inexplicable urge to flee, but answers the door instead.

“Where’s Stiles?”

“I dropped him at Scott’s and told him I had a hair appointment.  We need to talk. Where’s Derek?”

“He’s in the backyard; look, Lydia, I know you’re trying to help, but this is none of your busi—”

“Give me _one_ good plan as to how you’re going to handle this, and I’ll leave,” she counters.

Isaac opens and closes his mouth several times, just as much at a loss now as he was before. 

“That’s what I thought,” Lydia says smugly.  “I _do_ have a plan.  I _don’t_ want to see all this rainbow-vomit-inducing bonding you three have had go to waste. So it _is_ my business.  Go get Derek.”

He hesitates, unwilling to give in so easily even though he knows she’s got a fair point.  It doesn’t matter; Derek’s heard her anyway and the screen on the back door slams behind him as he reenters the house.

“Say whatever you’re going to say and be done with it,” Derek tells her moodily.

“Lovely to see you too, Derek,” she replies.  “With demeanors like these no wonder Stiles stays so enamored.”

“Fuck off,” Isaac says heatedly. 

_I don’t need your smartass remarks right now, Lydia._

“I want to help, and you’re being dicks about it.  Stop pouting like petulant children and actually _listen_ for five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.  Open mind, okay?  If not for me, for Stiles because I honest to God think this might be the best option.”

There’s a beat or two of silence between the three of them.  Both werewolves know damn well they haven’t got any idea what to do, so they might as well listen.  It’s still not easy to admit.  Up to now, everything Stiles has needed they’ve been able to give or at least help with.  Now, _they’re_ the problem.

“Five minutes,” Derek agrees with a nod.  “Go.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Dude, that sucks,” Scott says once he’s been told the whole story, every embarrassing, frustrating fact Stiles has held out on him.

“You’re telling me.”

“So what’re you going to do?”

“Pretend it never happened—just—just set a hard line as just friends and hope to God I salvage something out of it.”

“Dude, that _seriously sucks._ ”

“I know,” Stiles says morosely

_No matter how many times you keep saying that; it’s not going to fix the problem. Nothing’s going to fix this problem._

“Too bad the whiskey doesn’t work anymore.”

“We could play Xbox?”

“That’ll do.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

If he’s being entirely honest, Derek’s more than a little interested to see where Lydia goes with this.

“So Stiles likes you both,” Lydia begins, “and both of you like Stiles.”

“How about you skip to the part where you tell us something we _don’t_ know?” Isaac retorts.

“You both like each other,” she answers confidently.

“What?” Isaac replies dumbly.  “You mean _like_ like? Me and Derek we—”  _Never even thought about it,_ Derek thinks as his eyes find Isaac’s.  “—we’re not—” Isaac continues to stutter.  “We don’t—”

“Look I’m not saying you’re head-over-heels on the verge of eloping,” Lydia counters, “I’m just saying you like each other. You get along. You’re close. You care about each other.”

“And?” Derek prompts.

_Where the hell are you taking this?_

“And maybe Stiles doesn’t have to pick,” Lydia replies.  “That’s the issue we’ve got, right? He doesn’t want to pick.  You don’t want to make him pick.  Derek’s throwing himself under the bus and trying to pick _for_ him.  It’s all going to shoot this bond you three have all to hell  no matter what comes out of it.  Stiles thinks if he pretends he doesn’t want either of you, it’ll solve the problem, but the feelings aren’t going away.  You can’t fix it by ignoring it any more than you can fix it by choosing.  So go with it, and don’t make him choose.”     

“Don’t make him choose?” Derek repeats, knowing he’s missing her point.

_He either has to choose or be just friends. He can’t have us both can he?_

_Wait._

_Is that what Lydia’s suggesting we—”_

_"_ No,” Derek says firmly. “No—that’s—”

“Derek, come on. It makes sense. You thought about it for all of two seconds just—”

“Just so I’m sure I’m on the same page here,” Isaac interrupts, looking just as stunned at the idea as Derek, “we’re talking about not making him choose by just letting him date _both_ of us?”

“By _all_ of you dating each other,” Lydia corrects. “All three of you, in it together, figuring it out as you go.”

She says it like it’s the simplest concept in the world, and it makes Derek want to strangle her.

“That’s—that’s messed up,” Isaac replies, shaking his head. “We can’t—”

“Okay, here’s my logic; no interruptions, or so help me I’ll keep starting over ‘til you let me get all the way through because it fucking matters.”

“Two minutes,” Isaac allows this time.

“Guys, I _seriously_ thought about this; I’m _seriously_ putting this solution out there; and I’m asking you to _seriously_ consider what I’m saying to you.”

_Pretty sure I’m still too much in shock that you’re even suggesting this to interrupt with anything other than ‘no’ anyway.  By all means, try to explain how the fuck we could do that._

“You say it’s messed up,” Lydia says, starting with Isaac’s latest protest.  “It’s definitely unorthodox, I’ll give you that, but our _whole fucking lives are insane_.  We’re a damn werewolf pack.  Normal went out the window a _long_ fucking time ago, so get the idea that the normal rules apply out of your head and the rest starts falling into pretty logical progression.  The three of you got close.  You’ve stayed close and gotten closer.  You all clearly care a hell of a lot about each other.  Between the three of you, you somehow manage to take everything that comes at you, and you’ve done a pretty damn good job with everything you’ve handled so far.  Maybe this isn’t so different—just another progression of what you’re already building.

It’s not like Stiles is going to be able to hop right into a normal relationship.  You’ve all got plenty of baggage to share between you—I don’t pretend to know what—and I know the three of you are more likely to share and help each other than turn to anyone else in the pack with the serious stuff.  That kind of baggage _especially_ coupled with the fact that you’re werewolves means _none_ of you have much shot at a ‘normal’ relationship. 

Give up on normal.  We don’t need normal; we need whatever works. If that’s a hallucinating human and a kanima—or if it’s the three of you.  We just need whatever works and gets us through the day because life on this side of things is fucking _hard._ Don’t make it harder on yourselves by trying to cram it into the existing mold.  Make your own. Just give it a shot, and see if it can work.”

_We don’t need normal; we need whatever works._

The logic is so sound it’s excruciating. Derek’s been preparing to give Stiles up, and now Lydia dangles the possibility to not only keep Stiles, but to maybe gain Isaac?  It’s fucking terrifying to consider, but even more terrifying is how badly he realizes he would want that to work. He really _really_ wants it to be that easy.  To just see where it goes and have it fall together as well as everything else has between them these past few days.  It makes total and complete _sense,_ but it’s also _fucking insane_.

“That’s a hell of a leap, Lydia,” Derek says in reply. 

“The biggest variable is you two,” Lydia says.  “That’s why I’m having this conversation without Stiles.  If you just do it for him, then I don’t think it’ll work.  It’ll always be leaning to one side or the other.  He’d always be caught in the middle.  For it to work the same way this friendship you’ve got going works, you two have to care about each other as much as you care about Stiles.  I don’t know if you two are there—or could get there—or if it’s not even an option.  You two are the only ones that can tell if there’s enough between you to make this a possibility.”

Derek’s _is there?_ is reflected in Isaac’s eyes as their gazes meet.

_Isaac._

_Who I brought into this because I could’ve leave him alone, living in constant fear like I did with Laura gone. Who stayed when the others left. Who does the right thing even though the world tries to beat it out of him.  Who uses what he learned from his hurt to help ease Stiles’.  Who wants to badly to have people to care about, who care about him in return._

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Derek._

_Who pulled me out of that shit hole of a life and tried his damnedest to give me a better one, who kept trying even when he failed until finally, finally, we’ve gotten it right. Derek who’s too young to feel so damn old and still shoulders as many burdens as he can to save the rest of us. Derek who carries burdens he doesn’t share and tries to control anger that never goes away but still manages to care so much it scares the hell out of him._

Isaac’s not sure that he ever would’ve considered Derek in this light without this kind of shove, without something this important hanging in the balance.  He knows without hesitation that he cares a hell of a lot about Derek. 

_But how far does that go?_

Lydia’s right though, if they do this _just_ for Stiles, it’ll just be a matter of pulling him apart now or later. They’ve got to be on the same page. They’ve got to _know_ there’s something more than friendship with the two of them.  He wracks his brain to try and find words to ask where Derek’s at. 

_Hell I don’t even know where I’m at.  We suck at this.  We suck at talking and sharing and caring bullshit and—_

“Fuck it,” Isaac mutters, taking the five steps he needs to close the space between him and Derek.

Derek has to see it coming but doesn’t move away as Isaac puts a hand behind Derek’s head, pulling him forward until their lips crash together.  It’s apprehensive and urgent and desperate and there’s more in this one kiss than either of them could have managed to put into an hour of conversation.  It’s deliciously different from kissing Stiles—not better, not worse, just different—different but still _right_ somehow _._  

Isaac breaks away, breathless, opening his eyes to meet Derek’s and praying he felt the same thing.  He doesn’t speak, but the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth says more than enough.

“So now we talk to Stiles?”

“Now we talk to Stiles,” Derek agrees with a nod.

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, rising to his feet in the McCall living room gawking at Derek and Isaac.  “Did I just get invited to a threesome?”

“Yes,” Isaac replies, “I mean no—I mean—fuck, Stiles, don’t joke okay?” he continues exasperatedly. “Not right now. I don’t know how else to explain this, and it sounds fucking insane, so tell me if you’re really confused or if you’re just asking questions to deflect or some shit.”

_Holy fuck. This is not a drill._

“Wow, okay, we’re in super serious mode,” Stiles says. “Got it.  No joking.”

“No,” Derek agrees.

“So serious recap,” Stiles continues obligingly, still struggling to get his mind around the fact that this is actually happening.  “I—uh—I don’t have to try and figure this out and pick one of you, because apparently dating both of you is in fact an option? and you would also be dating each other?”

_What the hell parallel universe did I just cross into?_

“Essentially yes,” Isaac confirms.  “And if it all goes to hell, then—well—”

“It was already going to hell so at least we derailed it a while?” Stiles asks hopefully.

“Pretty much.”

_Both is an option. They both want to date me? and each other? And us just keep more or less doing what we’ve been doing with the general awesomeness and then more kissing—_

He knows it’ll be more complicated than that, but even the fact that this is now an option—

“Holy shit,” he mutters, plopping back down into the armchair.

He sees the look they exchange—Derek and Isaac’s “do you know what that means?” “no” “well fuck, I’m not sure either” helpless look—and realizes that the fact that they’ve reached this point—this knowing each other’s looks and holding hands to anchor and every other little getting-to-know-each-other moment that’s happened—in practically no time at all is pretty damn impressive.  It doesn’t make them a miracle team; it doesn’t make this the perfect plan; but it does add a vote of confidence that this might actually work—and work _well._

There are so so _so_ many things that could go wrong.  There’s a million and one ways this could fuck things up even more.  It could backfire entirely and ruin everything.  It could be the worst thing that could happen between them.

But it could also be the best.

Choosing to have just one of them was a risk he couldn’t take, but taking a risk to have them _both_?

_That. That I could probably do._

************************************************************************************************

 

They don’t try to hash out the details just yet.  They’re all still wrapping their heads around the idea that this is truly, legitimately on the table, and they’re all willing to give it a chance.  They’ll have to talk it out eventually of course; it’s uncharted territory for everyone involved, and that makes it scary as hell.  But for now, it’s enough to drift off to sleep hand-in-hand as usual, knowing that as they do try to figure this shit out, they’ll be doing it _together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> notes:  
> about the timeline:  
> I'm going to need you folks to oblige me here. I figure Peter's resurrection was Worm Moon (march) so then S2 ends in April, the alphas are already there by S2's finale, and the first starts. Stiles is taken in May, returned in Sept. But I wanted them to still be on break, so here you see my logic. Fudge with time with me a bit, and roll with it :) I know it's flawed. Sorry I suck at counting :P 
> 
> now, much more importantly, the fact that our boys are FINALLY getting together(ish):  
> I really cannot tell you how many drafts of this exist It's an excruciating number, but, in the end, I feel like this is something we've all seen hints of up to this point, and with Lydia as a catalyst, I wanted this to be a good and quick and happy thing for them that mostly comes together and then gets fine-tuned. Not a long excruciating pining/lost love/angsting thing...they've been through enough :P More angst to come though--fine-tuning like I said. Don't think this became *just* a fluff fest :)


	20. Chapter 20

“Stiles, it’s okay; it’s us,” Isaac’s calm voice breaks through the blind panic, bringing Stiles back.  

His hand on Stiles’ shoulder grips firm, grounding him as the fear dissipates into the calm of realizing he’s home.  He’s ever-grateful that a week’s time has seen the transition from waking up with his claws in Isaac’s chest to just needed a reassuring arm around his shoulders to steady him.  There’s still a long way to go, but such clear improvement makes the process look a little less arduous.

“I’m good,” Stiles says, relaxing into Isaac as he reaches for Derek’s hand on his other side.  “Just give me a sec.”

Yesterday’s decision is naturally forefront in his mind now that he’s back to his senses.

_But I’m not really sure I’m awake enough to dive into this. I’m not sure I’m ever going to be ready to dive into this; I’d rather it just magically come together._

“So,” he begins after a minute or two of silence, unable to stifle the urge to move forward any longer.  “Yesterday wasn’t an exceptionally vivid hallucination concocted purely of my wishful thinking?” he wonders. “Was it?”

“No,” Isaac confirms.  “Apparently we’re giving this a shot.”

“So we’ve got a helluva conversation coming today,” Stiles reasons.  “Bite the bullet, right?”

“Yeah, guess so,” Isaac agrees as Derek adds sleepily, “Yup.”

“But everything’s better with pancakes, right?” Stiles asks, stalling shamelessly.

“If we keep up the pancake thing, we need to invest in Bisquik.  We’re single-handedly keeping them in business,” Isaac replies.

“He who complains, gets no pancakes,” Stiles says sagely.

“Not _complaining_ ,” Isaac counters, “just observing.”

“It’s been a while,” Stiles counters. “By ‘a while’ I just mean, like three whole days—”

“Two,” Derek corrects, rising out of the bed, “but I’m not complaining either,” he adds with a small smile.  “I’m starving.”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************

 

There’s an uncertainty humming in the air between them as they make breakfast.  Isaac hopes it’s more anticipation than apprehension.  There are a million questions running through his mind, and he’s sure the other two probably have the same problem.  The thing is, as much as he wants to figure it out, it’s pretty damn daunting; he’d just assume skip it if they could.   

“Okay, the quiet is killing me,” Stiles says finally. “Unless somebody’s got a set plan here, just start talking. Questions, comments, concerns. I could make a quick survey if we want.”

“Just start talking?” Derek repeats, making himself a plate and stepping to the side so the others can do the same.

“What else are we going to do? This is going to be tedious and awkward.  We’re biting the bullet, remember? There’s no good or bad first question, just say shit that you’re wondering or worried about. It’s not complicated.”

_It’s insanely complicated. That’s the problem._

“Okay, so it’s the three of us,” Isaac says, blurting the question that’s most recently crossed his mind, “so what about when there’s just two?”

“Dude, we don’t need like a quorum for fooling around. Or dating or whatever this is,” Stiles replies.

“I’m being serious,” Isaac replies, a little irked at the joke.

_Time and a place, Stiles. This isn’t it._

"Sorry,” Stiles says, “That was seriously kind of my answer though. You’re asking if just two of us could do stuff without the third, right?”

“Yeah. Like is this going to be one big thing, all or nothing? Or three individual things? Or what?”

“I mean, I guess I assumed one big three-person relationship,” Stiles replies, “but, that said, there’s still going to be “honey I have a headache days” and days when we’re not all together and stuff like that; I think two out of three is fine as long as no one’s feeling left out?” Stiles continues. “I dunno. That’s just me.”

“Same,” Derek says with a shrug, “but if that bugs you, Isaac, we can—”

“No, I’m good just—clarifying.  We said any and all questions, right?”

“Right,” Stiles agrees.  

“I think though—I think if three is an option we should always go for three,” Isaac adds.  “Like—I’m not going to ask _just_ one of you for a date night or something but not the other.  Both get asked, and if one can’t make it, then two’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.  “We belong to each other equally, no favorites.”

“Don’t say belong,” Derek cuts in.  “You belong to _yourself,_ not us.”

It’s a minute distinction, but Isaac approves; it matters—especially with Stiles.

“Right, yeah.”

“But no favorites,” Isaac puts in, “or this isn’t going to work.”

“Yeah,” Derek concurs.

“Good point,” Stiles agrees.  “Okay, so,” he continues in the following silence. “That wasn’t too painful, right? Your turn, Sourwolf.”

Derek hesitates, stalling as the three of them move the conversation to the table.  Isaac knows Derek must have a million reservations with this; he’s more than a little curious to see which concern surfaces first.

“I think we should go slow,” Derek says finally.

“Agreed,” Isaac adds.

_Because again, this is insanely complicated._

“But not like, excruciatingly slow?” Stiles asks almost hopefully.  “I’m not—I’m not _totally_ broken here. We can still—”

“Just—slow,” Derek repeats with no offer of elaboration.  

There’s something besides concern for Stiles behind the statement; Isaac can see it even if Stiles hasn’t picked up on it yet.   _Something to do with Kate?_

“Yeah, but—don’t—get all overprotective and coddle the hell out of me here,” Stiles persists. “I don’t want to be the reason we can’t—”

“Slow for Stiles or slow for you?” Isaac interrupts, noting the momentary look of confusion on Stiles’ face at the question.

“Slow for all of us,” Derek deflects.

“Kate?” Stiles wonders, finally realizing something’s amiss.  

“No—I mean, yes, but not—not anything _that_ bad—nothing to worry about.  Just—I haven’t done this in a while.”  

He’s staring pointedly anywhere but at Isaac and Stiles, looking so embarrassed that it’s actually kind of adorable.

“A while?” Isaac repeats.

“I haven’t done this _ever_ , okay?” Derek snaps back.  “Except Kate, so if we could—just—slow would be better,” he repeats.

_Seriously. None of us know what the hell we’re doing.  Guess it’s a good thing we can figure it out together? And the bar’s kind of low at least? Fuck, this is going to be interesting…_

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles agrees readily. “Sorry I pushed, I just thought—”

“You’re not the only one walking in with baggage,” Derek cuts in curtly.

Derek’s feeling too vulnerable and the defenses are coming up— _complication number twelve hundred and eight-seven—_ but he’s also got a point.

“Stiles, don’t assume every decision we make is _just_ for you,” Isaac adds as gently as possible.  “I mean—a lot are, but we’re not doing this relationship thing just for you. It’s for _all_ of us.  It’s the same as everything else. We want to help and do whatever we need to help, but we’ve all got our own shit, too.  Ya know? Don’t feel like you’re the only one with reservations; you’re not.”

Stiles nods, a little guilt showing through on his face for failing to think of them.

“Shit, that sounded—that sounded a lot less of an asshole comment in my head,” Isaac apologizes.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“No, I get it,” Stiles replies.  “I—uh—I just—I guess I always assume you’re babying me, but we’re all actually pretty new at this I guess.”

_I didn’t stop to think I’m not the only one with shit to shovel through._

_Again._

_Get your head in the game, Stilinski._

It’s an unsettling reminder that Derek and Isaac both have plenty of issues on their own, and a lot more practice hiding them than Stiles does.

_This is the kind of thing I should be watching for and thinking about. I can’t just get bogged down with worrying about being the weak one around here. They’re not any more invincible than I am._

“Slow is better,” Stiles agrees again.  “Pace doesn’t matter as long as this works.”

“Right,” Isaac concurs as Derek nods.  

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek wants this weird, unorthodox, fucking crazy idea to work. He wants this so much it’s terrifying beyond words. They’re sitting here talking this out, making plans like they want it to last, and as reassuring as that is, it’s a reminder just how invested they’re going to be—how invested _he’_ s going to be—and it’s really fucking petrifying.  He feels out in the open—exposed and waiting for a death blow—and that feeling’s only going to intensify.

“Is this even going to work?” Derek asks. _Who are we kidding?_ “We’re sitting around making relationship rules for Chrissake. It’s already too complicated. Maybe this—”

“Stop it,” Isaac breaks in.

“I’m just saying—”

“I’m fucking scared too, okay?” Isaac admits.

It’s unsettling how quickly he identified Derek’s real issue; another argument both for and against moving forward.  

“Petrified,” Stiles adds quietly.  

“Don’t balk because it freaks you out,” Isaac says, “if you really don’t want this, that’s fine, but unless you legitimately hate it—which I don’t think you do—give it a shot,” he requests.  “Trust us,” he pleads earnestly.

_I can’t—I want to—but I can’t. How the hell am I supposed to explain that to you?_

Derek’s on his feet and out the back door in the next moment.  He can’t do this.  He can’t get this close—be this vulnerable.  He’s an Alpha now, goddammit. He’s supposed to be in control.  He needs to focus on protecting the pack. This is a point of weakness, a variable that will never settle out, a distraction he can’t afford.

_A loss I wouldn’t survive._

“Derek?” Stiles says tentatively, back door slamming behind Isaac as he follows Stiles out.

“We’re insane to even think this could work,” Derek says through gritted teeth.  “I can’t do this.”

He knows the frustration is radiating off him.  He doesn’t want to deal with this, doesn’t want to stare it in the face and let it in. He wants to shift and run and forget it, and go back to the simplicity of just keeping the betas alive without caring about everything _so fucking much_.  But the chink in the armor started with Stiles, losing him left him seeking out options to fill the void, and it got worse when Isaac started calling this family.  He’s been letting the world in, ready or not.

“Derek, come on,” Stiles pleads.

His hands cover one of Derek’s clenched fist; he’s trembling, and Derek knows the courage and control over conditioning this must take.  He wills himself to calm, for Stiles if for nothing else.  Isaac moves forward to grab his other hand.  The impulse to tear away from their grasp and run without looking back wars with a craving to cling back and never let go.

“It’ll work,” Isaac promises.

“You can’t fucking know that.”

_Look at our lives. Look at the shit that happens. You can’t know what’s coming. You can’t know something won’t fucking shred this fragile, risky shit we’re trying to pull.  Happiness is fleeting; you know that. Don’t pretend this is something we’ll get to keep._

“It’ll work,” Stiles says more firmly. “I’ve fucking _got_ to believe it’s going to work.  I’ve _got_ to believe that we can pull something _good_ that comes out of the shit storm of our lives or I’m going to lose my damn mind; we fucking _deserve_ something good after all this.”

_No, I don’t._

“You could back out; we can’t stop you,” Isaac concedes, “but you know as well as we do that we’re better as three.  That’s the whole reason this idea started.”

“Boys?” the sheriff calls through the house as he comes in the front door.

They all tense at the impending intrusion.

“There’s another reason this’ll never work,” Derek comments disdainfully.

“We’ll figure it out,” Stiles insists, squeezing his hand tightly, “ _together._ ”  

He pulls Derek’s hand up and his lips brush the back of it in a quick kiss before he goes inside to greet his father.  The simple act shouldn’t affect Derek as much as it does, but he can’t deny that it makes him _ache_ for the kind of closeness that makes such things a normality.  

“You want it so bad it scares the hell out of you?” Isaac asks. “’Cause I’m in the same boat.”  When Derek doesn’t reply he promises, “You’ve got more to gain than to lose; I swear.”

He’s got a valid point, and Derek knows it.  Even if he didn’t agree to this, even if he tried to take a step back, he’d never stop caring about either of them.  He’d still be shattered if he lost them in any sense of the word.  He’s in this, body and soul, whether he’s ready to be or not.  

_I’m in waaaay fucking over my head, but I might as well make the most of it while I’ve got it. Even if I couldn’t do it for me, I’d do it for them._

“Okay,” Derek says finally, taking a deep breath and praying this doesn’t come back to haunt him.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac can’t stop the elated smile that follows Derek’s agreement.  

_This can work. This will work. We’ll work. You’ll see._

Maybe they only made it through two questions before they hit a couple bumps in the road, but it’s still progress.  Isaac’s not worried about how quickly they move forward; he’s fervently hoping they’ve got all the time in the world to figure everything out.  And if they pull this off, if this goes as well as they’re hoping, for _once_ , he, Isaac Lahey, the most pathetic kid in Beacon Hills less than a year ago, against all odds, will somehow have managed to go from having nothing that mattered to having it all.

           

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

By the time Dad crashes to sleep after his night shift, Scott arrives wondering about breakfast. Then Isaac’s got a morning shift at the clinic.  Scott gives him a ride to register for school; Lydia and Jackson come home with them.   Then Dad’s awake and they’re all sitting down to pizza and the Angels game.

It’s been a whole day, and they’re just two topics into the Discussion of Epicness Stiles had anticipated.  Still, it’s something.  

Derek seems amiable enough to the plan again, but he’s not relaxed. He sits too stiffly, sandwiched between Stiles and Isaac on the couch, clearly still battling the reservations running through his mind, though at least he doesn’t seem _quite_ as overwhelmed. After the conversation this morning and Derek’s half-hearted bail attempt, Stiles keeps replaying Derek’s words from the night this friendship really solidified: _How many people do you think I’ve gotten close to and cared about since—since the fire? Now we’re making rope swings and spending tons of time bonding the pack and even talking about rebuilding the house and it’s just—it’s a fucking lot okay? It’s good, but it’s a lot to take in._

If Kate’s the only relationship Derek ever had and his family died when he was sixteen, that means the only person Derek’s been close to since then was Laura. Stiles doesn’t even know how close they stayed after the fire. As much as Stiles would hope they got closer, there’s also the chance he pushed her away, terrified she’d find out the truth about Kate.  There’s a very real possibility that Derek’s been firmly attempting to distance himself from _everything_ for the better part of six—almost seven?—years.

_Yeah. 0 to 60 in a couple weeks. It is a lot.  Maybe it’s better we only got two questions in so far._

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Okay so,” Isaac says as the sheriff heads out for round two of his triplicate night shift.  “Just us again.”

“Yeah.  We going back to the conversation?” Stiles wonders, with a quick glance to gauge Derek’s reaction.  “Or did we hit the limit for the day. I mean—we covered two of the most important things right?”

“I’ve got two more that’re killing me,” Isaac says.  “Then we’ll stop for today if you want?”

“Sure.”

“That’s fine.”

“What are we going about your dad?” Isaac wonders.

_Because that the biggest obstacle outside of our own issues. And I’ve seen for myself that the man knows about wolfsbane bullets and is a damn good shot_

Stiles grimaces, “Can we please just not tell him yet?”

“He should know,” Derek replies firmly.

“Yeah, eventually. He’s going to have to know, but right now—look, he’s not going to like it; I think we can all guess that much—if we’re taking it slow anyway, can we just hold off.   _We_ don’t even know how this will all work.  How am I going to explain it to him?”

“He should know,” Derek repeats. “He’s letting us stay here. He trusts us with you.”

“If he notices, I’m not going to lie to him,” Stiles replies, “but if I can stall a few days while we all wrap our heads around the idea of this, I just—I’d really rather do that.”

“Derek’s right. He’s been insanely trusting with this.  We shouldn’t get too far into it without saying something.”  

"But—”

“Two days?” Isaac asks in compromise.  

“Two days?” Stiles repeats dubiously.

“It’s already more than you should take,” Derek says.  “You’re not even eighteen, Stiles. Neither is Isaac.  We’re living with the damn sheriff. He trusts us.  You _have_ to tell him.”

“Fine, okay?” Stiles accepts. “Two days.”

“You said two things,” Derek says, looking back to Isaac, clearly eager to be done with the talking for a while, “what’s the other one?”

Isaac’s eyes flicker over to Stiles, still hesitant to breach the topic, but it’s got to be said.

“I don’t expect you to tell us everything,” Isaac says to Stiles, “I wouldn’t ever ask you to revisit that—unless you feel like talking will help, but that’s something for you to decide, and if you do want to talk you know we’ll listen, but that’s not something I’m going to _ask_ about—but I can’t do this— _we_ can’t do this—if we can’t trust you to tell us where you’re at.  We agreed on slow; for _all_ our sakes, but you can’t put on a brave face for this.  You’ve _got_ to tell us where you’re at or we’re always going to be second guessing ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees too quickly.

“I mean it,” Isaac insists.

 “And especially the Alpha-beta dynamic,” Derek adds, “if that gets to be too complicated—too much to try and overpower the conditioning—I can always back off.”

“I’ll tell you,” Stiles replies exasperatedly.  “You’ll be able to tell anyway; it’s not like I’m any good at hiding it.”

He’s embarrassed by the talk of his issues, as he always is, and Isaac hates to put him in the spotlight like this.  At the same time, Isaac knows damn well Stiles is going to try to push himself faster than he should. He’s impatient as he ever was, and they’re going to have to watch him.   Still, Isaac wants the terms out there; with enough reminders, they might just get Stiles to get a little vulnerable too.  He’s gotten good at pulling emotion from Isaac and Derek—half the time without even trying—but Stiles is still only vulnerable when he has to be—usually a flashback or something.  The rest of the time he’s trying too hard to seem normal to really open up about anything.  He thinks he’s such a weak link, never realizing just how fucking strong he is for even functioning after the hell he’s been through, and Isaac wants to make him see how fucking brave he is, but everything he could put into words always sounds too cheesy.  

Derek’s going to have the opposite problem.   He’s going to hold back his pace too much, hesitate because he’s afraid to push.  He’s the Alpha, which can be a complication on several different levels.  He’s also older, which matters to the outside world and Derek, though the truth is he’s more emotionally stunted than Isaac would ever be cruel enough to point out.    Isaac would also be willing to bet Derek doesn’t think he deserves anything like this after allowing himself to trust Kate and betray his pack, and just the idea of Derek still carrying that kind of guilt breaks Isaac’s heart.

Being with just one of them would be challenge enough, and Isaac’s going to have them both.  Oddly enough, as daunting as the thought is, he’s not nearly as terrified as he should be.  He’s damn delighted. This is what he wants more than anything: a pack that’s his family, people to be intimate with, and a purpose beyond just surviving.  He never asked for anything to be easy; he just asked not to be scared and alone anymore.

_This is going to be good—no, awesome—this is going to be fucking awesome. We just gotta give it time._

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek goes to sleep more tense than he’s felt in days, struggling to relax next to Stiles the way Isaac easily does on the other side, but he wakes curled into him, one arm thrown over both Stiles and Isaac, who are a tangle of limbs on their side of the bed. It seems Derek’s unconsciousness is plenty comfortable moving forward with this.  When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see Stiles’ is gazing back.  Stiles grins, blushing to have been caught staring.

“Morning.”

“You’re awake?” Derek replies, voice still dulled with sleep.

“Yeah, but I didn’t run today,” Stiles says happily, smile widening.  “I knew where I was.”  

Derek can’t resist returning the smile.  

“Granted, between you and Isaac and flailing limbs, I wouldn’t have gotten far, obviously.”  

Derek shifts to move his arm, but Stiles glares.

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles threatens before amending, “I mean—unless you don’t want to—”

“No, I’m good,” Derek assures, leaving his arm in place and inching just a fraction closer to the other two.

“Good,” Stiles replies, smile playing at his lips again.  

He bites his lip, debating something just a moment before he surges forward to bring his lips to Derek’s, kissing chastely and quickly, but lingering in Derek’s space after, like he’s struggling not to do more.  He studies Derek worriedly.

“Too much?” Stiles wonders.

In reply Derek kisses Stiles in earnest, unable to rein in the desire.   This is the fire Stiles started all those months ago with an entirely different kiss, the fire that’s been quietly smoldering and driving Derek mad until this second spark ignites it all again.  He worries for just a moment that this might be too much for Stiles; _he_ shouldn’t have started the second kiss. He should’ve waited for Stiles to do it, but the worry dissipates as he realizes Stiles has already taken control of this away from Derek, licking hungrily into Derek’s mouth as he brings a hand up to run his fingers through Derek’s hair and pull him in closer.  

Stiles breaks away for a moment, resting his forehead on Derek’s, to breathlessly mutter, “Fuck, Isaac.”

Derek looks past Stiles to see Isaac’s been sucking a line of quickly disappearing hickies down Stiles’ neck.  He grins impishly over at Derek as his lips leave Stiles skin, and the fire in Derek flares brighter.

“I take it you’re feeling a little better about this whole arrangement this morning?” Isaac asks.  

_I needed time to process okay? And yes, it is much harder to worry with Stiles’ tongue down my throat._

“Shut up,” Derek replies trying to feign annoyance, though he knows he’s failing miserably because he can’t get the smile off his face.

“Make me,” Isaac challenges, licking his lips in invitation as he leans in closer.

Derek hesitates only a moment— _no favorites, all equal—_ before he props up on one arm, closing the space between them to kiss Isaac deeply, relishing the little gasp that escapes him when they part to catch their breath.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles all but moans, “that might just be the hottest thing I’ve ever—”

Isaac swallows the rest of the sentence with his mouth on Stiles’, and Derek whole-heartedly seconds Stiles’ opinion.  Watching the two of them, knowing _both_ are _his_ though he’d never phrase it that way aloud, is more overwhelming than he could’ve imagined.  Isaac reaches for Derek’s hand and brings it to the hem of his own shirt.

“Off,” he requests, “make yourself useful, Sourwolf.”

Derek complies, sitting up to start stripping Isaac’s shirt up slowly, taking Isaac’s choice earlier as a cue and kissing and sucking his way up Isaac’s back as he goes. At the first touch of Derek’s lips to his back, Isaac let out an encouraging groan, muffled into Stiles mouth, and Derek smiles in accomplishment. Isaac pulls away from Stiles just long enough for his shirt to come over his head, and he freezes.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Make yourself useful. Make yourself useful._

_If you’re not being useful you’re being a burden. You don’t want to be a burden, do you Stiles? You can be useful.  A simple way you can be useful to your pack by fulfilling the need of your Second. You’re useful just as you are._

_Useful. Useful. Be useful._

It’s not enough to send him back into a flashback, but Peter’s words and the Alphas’ mantra echo through his mind all the same. He pushes through the moment.

_Not them. You’re with Isaac. Isaac and Derek.  Don’t ruin the moment. You’re okay. This is good._

But while Isaac may have been convinced enough with the continuing kiss, when he pulls away for a moment, there must be something in Stiles’ eyes or face that give him away.

“Stiles?” he asks worriedly.  

Derek pauses too, both of them studying Stiles to try and understand what’s gone wrong. Stiles tenses under the scrutiny.  

“I’m okay,” Stiles replies, forcing a smile that must not be believable because Isaac pulls away farther when Stiles moves to resume.

“No, you’re not,” Isaac counters.  “Maybe it’s not a flashback, but you’re not okay.”

“I will be, just—just keep going,” Stiles pleads. “I’ll be fine in two seconds.  Just—”

“I can’t,” Isaac says apologetically, “I can’t just ignore that something’s wrong.  Don’t ask me to do that.”

He pulls back, both Derek and Isaac moving out of Stiles’ space to give him room. The moment is officially shattered, and what should’ve been an awesome morning has officially been drowned out with bad memories.

“Dammit, no!” Stiles laments.  “This—no—I’m not ruining this for everyone. I’m fine, okay? It’s just a little—”

 “It’s not _just ‘_ a little’ anything,” Derek says. “It’s fucking important, Stiles. We’ve got time to fool around later. Right now, you need to talk to us.  Tell us what happened.  Next time, we’ll avoid it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles replies.  “I just—can we not—I— _goddammit_ ,” Stiles mutters angrily.  “I’m going to go fix breakfast. You two—do whatever.”

“Stiles,” Isaac calls after him. “Wait, Stiles!”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Maybe he’s not ready for this,” Derek says, grabbing Isaac’s arm as he moves to follow Stiles.

_Fuck, this was a mistake.  We should’ve known better. I should’ve known better.  I shouldn’t have gone along with this._

“Maybe not,” Isaac agrees, “but he still can’t shut us out when it matters.  He’s got to talk to us.  I don’t even know what exactly happened? Do you?”

“No,” Derek admits.

“So come on,” Isaac says, pulling free of Derek’s grasp, grabbing his shirt off the floor, and heading for the door.  

He pauses when he realizes Derek’s not behind him.  

“Derek, please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Stand there looking guilty as hell and ready to balk again,” Isaac replies.  “Don’t back out on it again; don’t.  It was good, wasn’t it? It felt right? It worked.”

_For all of five minutes._

“Until it didn’t.”

“So then we need to figure out what happened so it doesn’t next time, you said it yourself,” Isaac continues.  “We’re figuring it out _together_ and that means we need you too. He needs _both_ of us.”

Derek hesitates, and Isaac takes a step back toward him as he urges, “Come on, Derek, _please_.”

It’s not hard to see Isaac’s spooked even though he’s trying hard not to show it and take control of the situation.  He’s damn scared, same as Derek, just like he admitted yesterday, and the pleading look he’s giving Derek right now is going to rip him in two.  Derek shoves back the doubts for the moment in favor of helping Isaac because he can’t send him downstairs alone with that terrified look in his eyes.

 _We’re figuring it out together. He needs both of us,_ Derek repeats in his head and he moves to follow Isaac.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 _Pancakes._ Stiles thinks as he immediately sets to work in the kitchen.   _Derek likes pancakes, but Isaac likes omelets. I could make both. Both would be good. It won’t take too long. It’ll keep me busy. It’ll be good._

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Isaac makes his way down the stairs, grateful beyond words that Derek reined in his apprehension and followed.  He can hear Stiles muttering to himself in the kitchen and guesses he might need all the back-up he can get on this one.

_What the hell is Stiles even saying?_

_"_ It’s okay; I’m not a burden,” Stiles mumbles as he mixes the pancake batter.  The supplies for an omelet are out on the counter too—both their favorites as Stiles well knows.     “It’s okay; I’m not a burden. It’s okay; I’m not a burden.”

_Fuck. He’s far gone.  What did we trigger?_

“Stiles?” Isaac says, hesitant to disturb because Stiles is so clearly on the brink of some kind of breakdown or outburst.

“It’s okay; I’m not a burden. It’s okay; I’m not a burden. It’s okay; I’m not a—”

“Of course you’re not a burden, Stiles,’ Derek agrees. “You’re never a burden.”

At the sound of Derek’s voice, Stiles pauses the mantra and turns, facing them like he’s just noticed they’re here.  He stares with blank eyes for a moment, and Isaac can see the second he _really_ surfaces.  The bowl of batter crashes to the floor, splattering everywhere as Stiles takes several steps back from it.

“No,” he says resolutely, arms flailing in gesture of protest. “No, no, no. I’m not—I’m not making breakfast. I don’t want to make breakfast. You don’t expect this. It’s okay I don’t have to.”  His eyes find Derek’s as uncertainty encroaches.  “Right? It’s okay? I don’t have to? I don’t—”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Derek promises.

“But I want to be useful. I have to be useful,” Stiles replies stepping back forward to pick up the bowl, sinking back into the conditioning despite the outburst.  “If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden. It’s okay; I’m not a burden. I can make breakfast. I can make breakfast. It’s okay; I’m not a burden. It’s okay; I’m not a burden”

He’s never flipped back and forth this readily; it’s like watching a man possessed, and it takes everything in Isaac to not lose his shit along with Stiles.  Stiles picks up the bowl, returning to the stove.

“There’s plenty left. I’ll clean the rest later. There’s enough. I’ll make breakfast. It’s okay; I’m not a burden.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to do that,” Derek says.

“No, please, Derek,” Stiles counters as the automatic respect that’s been absent for days comes back. He clutches the bowl as if Derek might rip it away from him.  “ _Please_ let me. I can be useful; I’m not a burden.”

_Useful? Is that what set you off? Me telling Derek to make himself useful? Note to self: never use that word again._

Isaac had been ready for the actions upstairs to trigger something with Stiles, but never thought twice about any kind of verbal trigger.  It’s a stupid move on his part, given that almost all the triggers so far _have_ been verbal.  It’s also a horrifying reminder of just how easily Stiles can regress and how careful they’ve got to be in _everything_ while somehow not coddling and catering to the point he never makes progress.

_Fucking never-ending battle for balance._

But there are more immediate issues to worry about, so Isaac soothes, “Stiles, it’s okay; you’re right. Nobody expects you to do this.”

This time the switch is less sudden.  Stiles places the bowl determinedly on the counter.   

“I’m not making breakfast,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth.  “I don’t give a fuck if I’m useful.  I’m not making breakfast,” he asserts again, clearly trying to overcome the urge. “I’m not. I don’t care.”

“Exactly. You don’t have to make breakfast,” Derek says encouragingly.

Stiles get a couple careful steps back from the counter before nearly wailing, “I _should_ , though.  I really should."

"It's just the conditioning," Isaac counters. "You--"

"I know," Stiles replies miserably. "I know it’s them in my head, but it still makes sense that I should.  Do you get that?”

_Not really._

“Stiles, I don’t—”

“I should be useful. I should be good for the pack. If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden? You see that? It makes sense. That fucking mantra makes sense. It’s so fucked up that _anything_ they taught made sense, but it does. It’s true. If I’m not doing something to make things better, I’m making them worse. I’m just leeching energy out of the pack, making you take care of me and never giving anything back. If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden, but useful’s not the same thing here. Useful is being normal and not making you worry and us being happy but half the time I can’t do that. I thought I could; it was good, _great, fucking awesome_ for a few minutes, and then I ruined it all. I’m always going to be the one that ruins it—flashbacks and memories and all this fucking bullshit that’s never going to go away.  I’m _always_ going to be the one who ruins it; the fucking burden you all have to drag along with you because God knows I’m not fucking _useful_.”  

He’s crying now, sinking back against the cabinet, tucking his knees up and burying his face, and he looks so fucking distressed and forlorn that Isaac wants to sob with him.  Stiles is clearly embarrassed, wiping desperately at tears he can’t stop.

“Stiles, you don’t have to earn your spot here,” Isaac says gently, taking a seat on the floor beside him.

“You know that; don’t you?” Derek asks, approaching slowly, clearly aware he could trigger another descent with Stiles in this state.

“In theory, yeah,” Stiles replies, “but I didn’t think I was doing this to be useful.  I just thought I was making breakfast—something simple—and then I’m backsliding into the logic they taught me to calm myself down. It was genuinely helping and made sense. Do you know how fucking scary that is? That their fucked up little mantra’s always playing in my subconscious whether I think they are or not? Once I thought about it, all I could hear in my head was their words, over and over and over.   If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden. If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden,”he repeats, the hysteria rising. _“_ If I’m not being useful, I’m being a burden, and I _am_.  That’s what’s so fucked up!  The logic is sound.  I am _such_ a fucking burden! Look at you two, down here in an instant to take care of me.  My dad running out of his mind because there’s only so much he can do to help.  The whole damn pack rallying behind me and trying to make sure everything’s fine with me.  It shouldn’t be that way. I shouldn’t be this much trouble. I should give something back. I should be _useful_.”

Suddenly all the mentions of Isaac and Derek sacrificing anything on Stiles’ behalf aren’t just casual politeness or embarrassment anymore.  There’s something underneath it that they haven’t picked up on, a terror lingering from the alphas’ training that plays in his head.  A need to be an equal contributor, and their continued attempts to be so careful with him can’t be helping.

_But what else are we supposed to do? You deserve our attention right now. You’ve got too much to deal with. We want to help. We need to help._

 “No,” Stiles says again, rising to his feet as the rebellion builds, “No this is bullshit. This is—this is _such_ bullshit. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to get turned. I didn’t ask for a pack. I don’t need this. I could be me. I could be me, on my own and that’s okay,” he’s rationalizing aloud, talking much more to himself than Isaac or Derek. It's desperate and hard to follow and downright unsettling.  “I don’t—I don’t care what they said or what Peter said I don’t—fuck!” he rages, kicking the cabinet so hard the door snaps in two and droops on its hinges.  “I don’t want to care. I don’t want this in my head. I don’t want to need this! I don’t have to be useful. I don’t have to be a good beta. I didn’t fucking want any of this.  I just want to be a decent _person_ —not because I’m earning my place, not because I need pack or I’m a good beta, damn sure not because I’m programmed to do it—I just want to do basically good shit because I’m _me_ and I’m _am_ a decent person.  But now it’s all rewritten and it’s—I don’t know what’s me and what’s them and their training and it’s just it’s—they’re in my head when I don’t even realize it and goddammit I just want it to go away. I want it to s _top_!I don't want them in my head even afterI've gotten away, but it never fucking _stops!_ ” he accentuates the last word by slamming his fist into the counter so hard Isaac can hear the crack of the bones in Stiles’ hand as they break.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The pain of the breaking bones brings more clarity than he’d care to admit; it’s another sign of the conditioning. Still, it nevertheless helps him pull back the frustration and confusion and rage because Derek and Isaac are staring at him, unsure what to do or how to react, and he doesn’t want to worry them like this. They worry too much as it is.

“I sound fucking crazy,” Stiles acknowledges mournfully.  “I know I do—I just—I don’t fucking know, okay? It’s just—”

_I didn’t quite realize how much they were still in my head on good days.  I didn’t realize some of the conditioning would align with normal enough behavior. I didn’t think I had to watch out for them controlling my impulses with something as simple as deciding to make breakfast.  I thought cooking my own way was enough, but they're still in it, still driving me to do shit. I still don’t know if I started this to make up for upstairs or if I just wanted a distraction for myself._

“How can I _not know_ where the idea came from?” he demands.  “How can I not know if the idea was from me and what I really wanted or what they told me I wanted? How can I honest to God not know?”

They’re both at a loss for words.  Isaac’s got such a pitying look on his face that Stiles could strangle him though he means well.  Derek’s face is carefully blank as he tries to gauge how he should react, and Stiles appreciates that more than he can say.  

“It’ll get better,” Isaac promises eventually.  “It hasn’t been that long.  It’s awesome you’ve done as much as you have to get them out of your head, but it’s going to take time for it to go away completely.”

“And if it _never_ goes away?”  Stiles retorts bitterly.

“It’ll at least get quieter,” Derek replies somberly.  “Look at you now—a few weeks away from them and you’re already capable of this much rebellion from the training? It’s damn impressive,” he dons a small smirk before adding, “and you’re too fucking stubborn to give up.”

“Damn straight,” Stiles agrees, latching onto the affectionate insult and the normality it holds and letting it anchor him. _I’m stubborn enough to shoot their training all to hell.  I can fight this._ “Way too fucking stubborn.”

“Exactly,” Isaac encourages.

They stand silent a moment, each unsure how to proceed, until the clock in the hall chimes seven, startling them all a bit.  Stiles looks to Isaac.

“First day of school,” Stiles reminds him with a weary smile.   _How the hell can normal shit like school even be happening?_  “Don’t want to be late.”

“I don’t have to go. I could—”

Now that the moment’s passing, Stiles is raising the usual defenses again, putting on the casual demeanor that detracts from the brokenness; smiling over the urge to scream.

“You are not missing your first day because of me,” Stiles insists.  “Don’t even go there.  You’re going. You’re helping Scott spread fucking awesome rumors about where I went while I was gone—I’m still partial to the ninja training in Nepal plan—and make sure Jackson doesn’t spread some really lame, boring story, okay?”

“Ninjas in Nepal it is,” Isaac agrees, putting a smile on that’s clearly just for Stiles benefit, concern still shining in his eyes.

“Don’t spend the day worrying about me. I’m fine.  It wasn’t even a full flashback. I’m good.”

He glances to the breakfast supplies on the counter.  

“Go get ready and I’ll have breakfast done by the time you’re back.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to—”

“No, I’m good,” Stiles insists.  “The decision’s all mine this time. It’s definitely not because I’m trying to make up for anything.  It’s because I want to make breakfast, and we’re all gonna eat together, and we’re gonna pretend that the insanely embarrassing mental breakdown didn’t happen and that this was the perfect morning it started out as—because  it seriously was pretty damn awesome for a minute there—and then you’re going to go to school and celebrate that it’s your last first day ever in that hellhole with Harris, okay?”

“I can seriously just grab some—”

“No,” Stiles persists.  “They’re not fucking taking any more than they did, okay? They’re not taking the fucking mundane everyday shit I want to do with you guys and twisting it into programmed shit.  I’m _choosing_ for _my_ saketo do this. That’s what the difference is. It’s not good beta training or earning-my-place conditioning; it’s _Stiles_ calling the shots. I’ve just got to start making sure it’s _me_ leading the impulse, and it is right now. I fucking swear.  ”  

The difference is clear enough in Stiles’ head, but he can understand why Isaac’s hesitant to agree.

“Unless you really do just want poptarts or some shit,” Stiles continues nonchalantly, “but I, for one, will be having a fucking awesome omelet. Derek too because I’m not remaking pancake batter.”  

_But I am making breakfast. Breakfast because I want to._

_Because I like cooking. I like you two. I’m hungry. It’s a win-win-win._

_Because I want to. Not because I should.  Because I want to._

_As long as I can keep the distinction, it’ll be okay._

_It’ll be okay._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, the usual steps forward accompanied by steps back. Hope you enjoyed it!! Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS. If you do come follow me on tumblr, especially if you comment but even if you don't, you should drop in my ask and say hi so I don't miss you :)


	21. Chapter 21

“You three are awfully quiet,” the sheriff comments as they eat.

“Long day,” Stiles replies.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he says knowingly.  “You might as well spit it out, whatever it is.”

He swallows his latest bite of pasta with a gulp, glancing to Isaac and Derek a moment before continuing.

“Dad, you’re not—you’re probably not going to like what I’ve got to say,” Stiles informs him.

“That’s always a fun way to start a conversation.”

“Seriously,” Stiles insists. “You’re not, but you can’t freak out, okay?”

“Oh, I can’t, huh?”

“Stop trying to keep it light,” Stiles commands. “I’m trying to preface this for a reason. You’re not going to like it, and you’re going to start yelling, and if you start yelling my control’s going to get shaky and then the conditioning will kick in and I don’t want to hurt you. You understand what I’m saying?”

_Because I know you.   There’s an extremely high probability that you would yell and give death threats and if the human in the room starts yelling at the Alpha I’m scared the conditioning might trigger and I can’t live with myself if I hurt you._

Dad stills, worry flooding into his eyes. “Stiles, what the hell do you have to say?”

“Promise me you’ll keep calm,” Stiles persists. “Promise, Dad, and if you need to walk out a minute or whatever, do it, but—”

“I promise,” the sheriff says too readily, “you’re scaring me, Stiles, what the hell have you got to say that’s so bad?”

“It’s not bad,” Stiles contradicts, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “It’s good, Dad. It’s _really_ good, and it’s something I want to work really bad.  You’re just—you’re not going to like it.”

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“You’re telling me,” the sheriff says, face contorted in fury despite the fact that he’s trying to mask it, “That they want to _date_ you?”

“I want be with them too, Dad. I—”

“The _three_ of you in a _relationship_?!” the sheriff hisses, clearly assuming keeping the volume of the argument down will help, though the venom in the words is as strong as if he were screaming, “Months God knows what kind of torture. All the shit you’re going through as you try to adjust, and they want to fucking throw some sort of fucked up three-person _relationship_ into the mix?!”

“We wouldn’t do anything to hurt him,” Isaac protests.

_Maybe you’re pissed, but you still have to know that, right? Beneath the general urge to shoot us both._

Derek adds, “We wouldn’t go in this direction if we weren’t all ready to—”         

“Ready?!” the sheriff repeats incredulously. “ _Ready_?! You think he’s ready for anything like this? He’s still having flashbacks for Chrissake.  It’s only been a few weeks that we’ve had him back at all.  He’s _not even eighteen years old_!” The sheriff fixes them both with an icy glare. “What the hell are you two thinking?!” he demands, “You’re supposed to _help_ him. You’re supposed to be taking care of him! Not taking _advantage_ of him!”

_We’re not taking advantage of him. You know us better than that. You can’t believe we’d ever hurt him._

It takes _every_ ounce of control Isaac’s got not to argue back anymore.

_It’s his kid. He’s been through hell. Of course he’s protective. Stiles doesn’t need you three yelling at each other right now._

“Dad, _please_ ,” Stiles begs, eyes shut tight, gripping the table for dear life as he struggles to keep his control.

 _He’s terrified of hurting you. Don’t push his limits,_ Isaac implores mentally as he readies to stop Stiles if he shifts.  Maybe it’s not the moment for it, but he reaches to put one of his hands over Stiles’ anyway.  Stiles lets go of the table and clings back, desperate for an anchor.

 _See? We help. He needs us, and we need him._ _Don’t ruin this._

The sheriff rises from the table, gaze worriedly on Stiles as he realizes the war against conditioning he’s started in his son’s head. He retreats out the back door still smoldering with rage. 

 “Whatever he says about this pack, you don’t have to defend us,” Derek says quietly, knowing what Stiles needs to hear.  “It doesn’t matter that he’s human and not pack; he’s your father.  He’s allowed to say whatever the hell he wants about us; you don’t have to prove your loyalty or teach him a lesson or anything.  You never, _ever_ have to hurt him because of us,” he promises. “Better?” Derek wonders.

Stiles nods.   “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Stiles draws in a deep breath as he releases his hold on the table slowly, but his hold on Isaac’s hand doesn’t weaken.  He stares at the still-swinging screen door the sheriff disappeared through.

“I gotta talk to him.”

_You sure either of you are up for that?_

“Maybe give it a minute?” Isaac suggests. 

“I gotta talk to him,” Stiles repeats, rising to follow his father out the back.  “I’ll make him understand.”

_He’s not going to understand; we barely understand. Just keep him from losing his mind. That’s all any of us can hope for these days._

           

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Dad?” he says quietly as he walks out. 

Dad’s leaning against the rail of the porch, staring at the backyard but not really seeing anything.  Stiles moves to lean on the rail a few feet from him.

“Stiles, you can’t think this is okay,” Dad says tiredly, rancor gone from his voice now that it’s just him and Stiles.  “You have to see you’re not ready to—”

“I told you we’re taking it slow,” he reminds. “It’s a long-term plan, Dad, not something we decided to do on a whim.”

“You’re _not_ ready for anything like this.”

“Dad—”

“I _trusted_ them with you,” Dad interrupts.  “Do you understand how hard that’s been? To see how much help you need and _know_ I’m not the best person to give it to you? To stand to the side and let two boys I barely know take care of you?  But I did let them.  I stood aside, and I let them take lead, and I was damn thankful they were here when you needed them.  I _trusted_ them to help you and protect you and now I find out it’s—” his Dad shakes his head in distress. 

“Dad, come on, it’s not that bad,” Stiles insists.

“You’ve been hurt enough,” his dad says quietly, finally turning to look at him, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, “without people you trust taking advantage of—”

He’s hugging Dad before he thinks, needing more than anything for the sadness in his father’s eyes to go away.

“They’re not, Dad,’ he promises. “They’re really not taking advantage.  I was the one who pushed the hardest for this.  I want it to work.  I want it to work so bad it’s like a constant _ache_ in my chest, and I just—I need you to understand that. You’re right; I’ve been hurt enough,” he agrees, pulling away from the hug so he can look Dad in the eye.  “But this _helps,_ Dad. I know it’s weird and it sounds insane but it _helps_ more than I can even tell you _._ It’s not too much, and it’s not too fast, it _helps._ They _help._ ”

 “Stiles—”

“Please don’t make me choose between respecting your wishes and having them,” he adds.

“I’m not an idiot.  I think we both know who you’d pick if I made you,” his dad replies bitterly, glancing over Stiles’ shoulder into the house.

_Oh fuck, Dad.  That's the kind of thing you should talk to me about. If you're feeling out of the loop on things, fucking talk to me. Don't wait til we hit breaking points._

“Don’t say that. You're more important. You know that.”

“It took all your control not to take a swing at me just for yelling at them.”

_Cheap shot, Dad. Don’t say that to me._

“That’s not _me._ You know that.  You _have_ to know that.  I can’t help it, but I’m trying—”

“I know you are. I didn’t mean that I—”

“I know you want to help. I just—the bond with them is safe enough even when I lose control.  I won’t hurt them, and if I do they’ll heal.  You don’t.  I’d fucking lose my mind if I hurt you; you get that?  I’m keeping you at arm’s length because _you’ve_ been hurt enough too.”

_I wish you could help. I wish I wanted you more because I know it’s been killing you to sideline yourself, but I can only stretch this shit so far, and I’m taking the road of least resistance here._

“We’ll get back to how we were,” he promises.  “I’m getting better; I’ll get better.  We’ll go back to Caroline’s and hit the dollar movies on Saturdays and I’ll come snoop through your shit at the station.  Just—it’s gonna take time.”

“I’m not trying to guilt you out, Stiles,” Dad says apologetically. “I’m just saying—”

“That you worry,” Stiles interjects. “You always worry about me.  I know that, but I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’re still _my_ kid,” Dad counters.  “And I should’ve protected you.”

“What?”

_You can't think any of this was your fault. Please tell me you don't think that. No, Dad. This was all me--well, me and those psychotic bastards who fucked up our lives--it wasn't you._

“You were running around with a werewolf pack, and I didn’t notice.  I’m the goddamn sheriff Stiles. How blind—”

“You were just trying to keep the department running after Matt went on his killing spree and then calls of animal attacks started flooding in incessantly.  I wasn’t _that_ far out of the ordinary.  I’m always running around doing stupid shit,” Stiles argues back.  “You weren’t blind. I should know. I had to work like hell to hide it from you. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I—”

“That’s not your responsibility! I’m you father. _I_ take care of _you_. Not the other way around.”

“Losing Mom was enough. I wasn’t going to lose you too.”

_Both parents dead and both my fault? I’d never be able to live with myself._

“You think I don’t feel the same damn way?” the sheriff asks, clearly wrecked at even the thought.

“You’re not going to lose me, Dad,” Stiles promises.           

“I already did,” the sheriff reminds, “and it almost killed me, Stiles. What if I don’t get you back the next time?”

“Dad—”

“And, yeah, maybe I’m not the one you want when you have bad dreams anymore; maybe I can’t help you when the conditioning kicks in; but I can damn sure give my opinion when I see you going down a path you’re not even remotely ready to—”

“Dad,” Stiles interrupts.  “I know you’re trying to help, and you don’t want me hurt, but you don’t understand it like you think you do.”

“Then explain it to me,” he challenges.  “Explain how the hell this could possibly be a good plan.”

“Brutal honesty for a second?” Stiles says, knowing the disclaimer won’t ease the sting of the words. 

“Okay.”

“Because _nothing_ they do will be worse than what’s been done.”  He sees the brokenness in Dad’s eyes as the point sinks in and _hates_ himself for pulling this card, but he’s _got_ to make Dad understand on some level.  “It'll only be better.  I’ve got good memories for everything else.  I’ve got all kinds of good stuff to drown out the bad, but you know as well as I do that the general obsession with Lydia was the closest thing I ever got to a relationship.   All I’ve got to combat what they did to me is the little things I remember from you and Mom.  I remember how happy you were, Dad. I remember the way you looked at each other and the way you lit up when she walked in the room and the way you held hands all the fucking time even though you’d been married twenty years.  I want something like _that_.  It’s as far from life as the Alpha Pack’s beta as I can possibly get.  This thing with Derek and Isaac. It’s not about pack; it’s not about sex. It’s about us, and the fact that we _work_ in ways I don’t even understand.  I just _know_ it can be good. Really, really, good. You and Mom good.  And I want it to be so much that it’s killing me.”

Dad still doesn’t like this idea, but his resistance just took a huge blow.

“And seriously, after all the shit I’ve been through, if wanting a healthy, long-term three-way relationship is the weirdest thing that comes out of it, we’re in good shape,” he adds cracking a smile and hoping his dad will follow the cue to back to light-heartedness.  “Normal doesn’t work in our realm of the world; we just have to look for whatever works, and this does.”

His Dad smiles back obligingly but only for a moment before the seriousness returns. 

“I want to talk to them.”

“ _Talk_ to them or _yell_ at them?”

“Talk,” his dad replies.  “But there will be threats of bodily harm involved—I’m your Dad, I’m entitled—so go put in your iPod or something so it doesn’t mess with your control.”

“Dad, come on, seriously?” Stiles asks with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, seriously.  You want to do this. You want me to go along with it. These are my terms. I’m talking to the both of them and making damn sure they’ve got the right view of this before it goes any farther.”

“ _Dad,_ ” Stiles whines. “You don’t—”

“Those are the terms,” Dad persists. “Take it or leave it.”

He takes it of course because it’s honestly a better offer than he could’ve hoped for.  It also gives Dad at least the illusion of control—though honestly Stiles knows he could put up a damn good show if he ever did attempt to attack any of the wolves, his dad’s kind of a badass when he wants to be—and so Stiles goes inside to find his iPod, knowing Derek and Isaac have heard everything and doubting they’ll refuse the terms either.  He plops moodily on the couch in the den and cranks up the volume loud enough to drown out everything else.

_Please at least try to be civil, Dad._

*************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You’re werewolves,” the sheriff says.  “So you heard all of that?”

Both Stiles and Derek nod.  Derek can guess where this conversation is going, and he’s readying himself to calm as the Alpha side of him itches to react to threats and assertions that Stiles belongs with his father more than the pack.

“Then you heard what he thinks this is going to be?”

“He’s right,” Isaac confirms.  “It’s not about the pack or sex or any of that.  We _work,_ and that’s hard enough to find for anybody, much less when you’re carrying as much shit as we all are.  We’re not giving it up without a fight.”

“Good,” the sheriff says.  “Because it’s going to be hard, _really_ fucking hard to make it work.  Two people is hard enough, much less three.  If you kids are really going for something permanent, it’s not going to be a walk in the park. If either of you don’t think you can handle that. If you don’t think you can be in this through hell or high water or whatever the fuck else gets thrown at you, back the hell out now, you understand? Because he’s clearly invested, and maybe you’ve helped him and protected him and say you won’t push the pace, but if you let him get attached and then get overwhelmed in a couple months when he’s not magically better—”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Isaac commits.

“No one is going into this lightly,” Derek agrees.  “We don’t want him hurt any more than you do.”

“So help me God,” the sheriff continues, “if you push him too fast or start giving pack orders he can’t disobey about this relationship or do _anything_ to shatter the hell out of him while he’s trying to piece his life back together, I will pump you both so full of monkshood bullets or whatever the hell else it takes that you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. You hear me?”

The Alpha in Derek wants to growl at the statement, shift and show the human how weak his threats sound, but that’s not what’s needed right now.  This isn’t about his pride; it’s about Stiles.

“If we do hurt him like that, we’ll want you to,” Derek replies honestly.

“But we won’t,” Isaac says firmly.  “We need him as much as he needs us, and we’re all going to make this work.”

The sheriff nods curtly, before he looks exclusively at Derek.

“Neither of them is eighteen,” he says, “ _and_ you’re their Alpha.  If you use that to your advantage—”

“Never,” Derek promises. “I’d never do that; you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I worry about everything,” the sheriff mutters, running a hand down his face and looking so much older than he should. 

_So do we._

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The sheriff goes for a drive, most likely to process the insane situation they’ve slammed him with. 

“No gunshots, no mauling, minimal death threats,” Stiles says as they clean up in the kitchen. “Better than I expected.”

“Me too,” Isaac admits.  “I figured this would be a pretty excruciating process.”

_I was ready for it to be bad and long and arduous, and for your Dad to kick us out and start giving you ultimatums and all that shit.  Not a little yelling, a heartfelt conversation, and a pretty damn open mind._

“Oh, it’ll be plenty excruciating,” Stiles replies. “He’s going to be a pain in the ass because that’s what happens when he worries, but, overall, we should be in the clear.”

“You’re Dad’s pretty awesome, you know, even when he’s doling out death threats.”

“Dude, he raised _me_ ,” Stiles replies.  “He’s been developing patience of Job since the day I was old enough to start coloring on the walls.”  He shrugs before conceding, “I’m not saying he’s always _successful_ with the patience thing, but he does pretty good. He always cools down enough to listen eventually.”

_Hell of a lot better than my Dad—at least the way he was once Mom was gone._

Stiles flicks water in Isaac’s face to alleviate the sincerity of the moment, and Isaac smacks him with the towel he’s using to dry the dishes.  They finish the last few and head out to the den, all three of the crashing on the couch to watch the rerun of Field of Dreams that’s on.

“You should take some inspiration from this, Derek,” Stiles comments.

“What?”

“If you build it, the pack will come,” Stiles replies, modifying the quote to suit the situation.  “A house I mean—not that a ball field wouldn’t also be awesome.”

Derek frowns, considering.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Some.”

“And?”

“We’ll see.”

“We can’t live with my Dad forever.  I’ll be better eventually. I’ll graduate; Isaac too.  Even if we don’t get a whole house, we could get a place of our own, ya know?”

“We’ll see,” Derek repeats noncommittally.

“What d’you think, Isaac?” Stiles wonders.

“Home would be good,” Isaac concurs.

_Right now I’m pretty much mooching off your Dad staying here and occasionally going back to Cindy and Rob’s.  An actual place to call home would be good._

Of course, he feels pretty damn at home nestled here on the sofa with Stiles and Derek, smashed and jumbled together in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable but _really_ fucking is. 

_Home’s not about the place anyway._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Dad walks in as the movie’s ending.  He takes in the sight of the three of them on the couch jumbled together, his face tightens just a bit before relaxing into something akin to acceptance. 

“You boys don’t stay up to late,” he instructs as he walks through.  “Isaac’s got school in the morning.”

Stiles can’t help grinning. 

“Dad,” he calls as his father disappears down the hall.  “Hey, Dad, hold on.”

He untangles himself from the others two and hurries to catch up.   Dad’s paused outside his bedroom door, clearly ready to call it a night on the craziness.

“Thanks,” Stiles says simply, hoping the immeasurable amount of gratitude comes out in the word as he hugs his father tightly.   “I know it’s a stretch for you—just—just thanks.”

“I just want you to be all right, kiddo,” his Dad replies, voice gruff as he tries to hide the emotion.   “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” he promises. 

 “Then I’m glad,” Dad replies, smile genuine though a little strained.

           

           

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek still can’t believe they got off this easily.  He’d dreaded this for two days, convinced they’d lose progress, convinced it would rock the boat and send Stiles in a spiral of some sort, convinced they’d lose the sheriff as an ally and make all of this infinitely more complicated.   Sure there’s going to be scrutiny from the sheriff now.  There’ll be plenty of bumps in the road.  Nevertheless, they’ve come out far ahead of where Derek anticipated.

_The worst doesn’t always happen.  We still catch a few breaks._

As they get ready for bed, he can’t stop the idea of the house from turning over and over in his mind.  It’s been a couple weeks since they first breached the subject, and it hasn’t gone away.  Both Stiles and Isaac have mentioned it now, more than once, and though he’d love to have the whole pack together, even just Isaac and Stiles would be enough motivation to seriously look into the options. 

“Hey,” Stiles calls from where he and Isaac are tangled together on the bed.  “You getting in on this? Or have you got a voyeur kink we should know about?”

 _I just might,_ Derek thinks, struggling to keep his mouth from gaping open as Isaac strips his shirt off and bares his throat, encouraging Stiles to work his way down it leaving a trail of perfect pink hickies as he goes. 

Derek crosses to the bed in three quick steps, claiming Isaac’s unoccupied mouth, swallowing the small gasps he makes as Stiles works at his skin.  He’s surprised at how firmly Isaac kisses back, more like their first kiss than any since.  He takes control of it like he owns Derek’s mouth, thrusting his tongue in deeply and biting at his bottom lip.  The clear intent to dominate the moment should stir rebellion from the Alpha in him, but it doesn’t; it just deepens a hunger he didn’t know was there.  As a beta he longed to control everything while he was with Kate, maybe as an Alpha he needs a moment to relinquish control? Pondering it will have to wait because there’s no room for lucid thought with both their mouths on him, teasing out noises he’s embarrassed he can even make.

He’d been so worried about this, how it would work, but it’s not as difficult as he imagined to find a rhythm between the three of them.  It’s not long before they’re nothing but an indistinguishable mass of limbs, contentedly seeking contact and closeness in whatever form and order it comes.

“Maybe,” Stiles gasps breathlessly, as Derek’s mouth leaves his to find Isaac’s again.  “Maybe we went a little overboard with the ‘nothing below the belt yet’ rule. Maybe we could—”

“Not tonight,” Derek requests.

Stiles honest-to-God whimpers before he agrees, “Okay, yeah, okay. Slow is better, right.”

“Soon enough though,” Isaac promises with a smile as he retreats from Derek to kiss Stiles slow and deep before flopping to his side of the bed. 

“Hopefully,” Stiles replies, “or I’m gonna fucking spontaneously combust.”

He looks guiltily at Derek.  “I don’t mean to rush. I just—”

“I’m fine,” Derek replies. “Just not tonight.”

_I’m fine, but I’m not sure you’re fine. I’m not sure we know your triggers. I’m not even sure that you know your triggers. That’s a whole other level of interaction, Stiles.  Can we just bask in the current awesomeness for a while?_

“Okay,” Stiles agrees again, leaning in to give Derek one quick, chaste kiss before falling back to his spot by Isaac. 

Derek lays down with them, one arm thrown over the two as has become the norm the past few nights. He’s on the edge of sleep, content and relaxed, when the thoughts of the pack house come back to him.

“I think I might call a contractor tomorrow,” he mumbles. 

“Really?” Isaac wonders excitedly.  “Dude, that’d be awesome.”

“Mmmmmhmmmm,” Stiles agrees sleepily.  “Fucking awesome.”

A million more questions run through his mind: Rebuild the old house? Build a completely new place? The family land? Someplace else? How big is too big? How long would it take?

_I bet if I try, I could get it figured out and done by Christmas._

 

           

            


	22. Chapter 22

Isaac knocks three times on the office door. 

 “Come in,” Ms. Morrell calls.  “Hello, Isaac,” she greets with a warm smile. “Would you please shut the door behind you and have a seat?”

 “First week of school and already referred to the counselor,” he comments as he settles in the chair opposite her.  “New record?”

“Do you know why I called you in?” she asks, ignoring the dark attempt at humor and remaining as businesslike as ever.

“Cindy thinks I’m on drugs again?” he supposes, knowing for once he’s probably wrong _._

“I’m sure the fact that you frequent the sheriff’s house has put her mind at ease lately,” Ms. Morrell replies.

_It’s kind of creepy how you keep such a close eye on us without interacting.  You get that, don’t you?_

  “A few of your teachers suggested I speak with you,” she informs him.

“Did they?” Isaac asks, not bothering to feign interest. 

“They say you seem anxious and distracted in class.  You missed first period this morning.”

_What does it matter? You said it yourself, I wasn’t paying attention anyway. We had a rough morning. I wasn’t coming to school until I was sure Stiles and Derek were okay without me.  I’ll probably skip last period too. It’s really none of your concern._

“None of your teachers want to see you start your year off on the wrong foot after you finished last year so strongly in spite of everything.”

“Well, isn’t it kind of them to worry?” he simpers.

"It’s clear you’ve got too much on your plate, Isaac,” she says, sympathy dripping from every word and he _hates_ it.

_Maybe you should’ve felt some of that sympathy five months ago. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me now._

“What else is new?” Isaac wonders, unable to completely hide the bitterness in the reply.  
           

“Dealing with Stiles can’t be an easy burden on your pack.”

“He’s not a _burden_ ,” Isaac retorts heatedly, rising to his feet without thinking.  “Don’t call him that. _Ever._ ”

She regards his outburst mildly, her only reaction a raised eyebrow as Isaac returns to his chair.

“You’re awfully protective.”

“He’s my pack. What do you expect?” he deflects.

“Nothing less,” she replies, “but that doesn’t mean you should sacrifice your school because you’re worrying about him.  The other betas seem to be doing okay—no red flags to their teachers yet anyhow. Then again, I’m sure you must empathize with Stiles on some level after what you endured with your father.”

“What happened to me is _nothing_ compared with what they did to him.”

“That doesn’t make what you’ve been through and your own difficulties any less important.”

_Of course it does.  Dad was nothing next to the alphas.  I’ve had my time to cope. I’m fine. Whatever residual shit I have, I can suck it up.  He needs me now. Derek needs me now.  There are more important things._

“So Stiles _is_ having a rough recovery?”

“What the fuck do you even care? You’ve made it clear on more than one occasion that you don’t want to get involved with our pack’s problems.”

“I’m willing to make an exception,” she replies.  “I think we both know you’re in over your head with Stiles.”

“And you think you can handle it better than us? An almost complete stranger who runs at the first sign of trouble?”

“I think I’m better equipped to field his psychological trauma, yes,” she replies coolly. “You disagree?” 

_No._

“I’m aware that no one in your pack has a particularly high opinion of my battle strategy,” she continues.

“ _Strategy_?” Isaac repeats incredulously. “We were losing like hell—” _They were going for everyone’s family; they nearly killed the Whittlemores.  Lydia’s mother spent three days in the hospital.  The sheriff was right in the middle. The hunters were running out of backup to call in.  The alphas were ripping us apart every time we turned around._ “—and you _still_ couldn’t be bothered to help.”

“I don’t like to get involved unless absolutely necessary.”

"Yeah, well, you can take your isolationist advisor ‘ _strategy’_ and shove it.  We survived without you before; we’ll be fine without you now.”

“I really believe Stiles needs more help than you can—”

“Stiles will be _fine_ ,” Isaac insists.  “Are we done here?”

She frowns in disapproval.

_Like I give a shit what you think._

“Yes, you may go,” she replies.  “Try and focus in class.   You won’t help Stiles at all by failing out of your senior year.”

He rises and stalks to the door, anger still bubbling under the surface. 

“Isaac?” she says as his hand reaches for the door handle.

“What?”

“You know it’s the full moon tonight.  I trust you’ve taken precautions.”

“No, actually we just thought we’d let him roam the town tonight,” Isaac replies sardonically as he pulls the door open.   “We figured the fresh air would do him good.”

           

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Stiles is on the couch trying to distract himself with his schoolwork, but he’s been staring at the same screen for twenty minutes as the tension in him builds.  Derek rises to go to the kitchen, and Stiles recoils so entirely the computer would have clattered to the floor if he didn’t have werewolf reflexes.

“Shit,” Derek says. “Sorry. I shouldn’t’ve—”

"Not your fault,” Stiles replies as he draws in a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.  He sits the computer on the coffee table, hands trembling.  “Just a stressful kind of day, huh?”

 “How do I help you?” Derek asks miserably.

 “Not sure there’s much to be done,” Stiles answers honestly.  “I can feel myself slipping,” he adds quietly, “but I can’t stop it.  I don’t think I can keep them out of my head today.”

 “I can contradict it,” Derek offers.  “Tell me what to say,” he prompts when Stiles doesn’t reply immediately.

 “Just—I know you wouldn’t, but still just promise you won’t make me hurt anyone,” Stiles replies hesitantly. 

 “Of course not,” Derek swears. “You don’t have to hurt anyone.” 

 "Promise you won’t let me hurt anyone.”

 “Stiles, you won’t. You’ve got great control. You—”

 “Don’t,” Stiles interrupts, jaw set and eyes closed as he tries to focus on his control. “Just promise.”

 “Everyone’s nervous their first few full moons,” Derek offers encouragingly.  “It’s stressful shit, but you won’t—”

“Promise you won’t let me hurt anyone,” Stiles insists again.  “If you have to chain me up so I can’t hurt anyone; that’s okay. Do whatever it takes. Promise.”

“We’re not going to chain you up!”

“Dammit, Derek, you don’t know what I’m capable of!”

There’s a guilt in Stiles’ eyes Derek hasn’t seen before, a look of torment that makes Derek’s guts twist unpleasantly.

“Capable of?” he repeats dumbly. 

 _"_ I know you think I was just a programmed servant,” Stiles replies tersely, “but they made me a fucking weapon, too! Don’t you get that?”

_A weapon?_

He realizes for the millionth time just how little they really know about the time Stiles was with the Alphas.

_What did they make you do?_

“Stiles—”

“Please just promise,” he pleads wearily, the slight tremble in his voice giving away just how difficult it is to continue this argument with his Alpha as the conditioning in his head no doubt screams for him to stop.

"We’ll keep you in check,” Derek swears.  “You’re not going to hurt anyone tonight. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles replies, the answer out before he means it to be.  “I mean—ya know I appreciate it or whatever,” he adds, trying to cover the automated response.

_Ah, fuck. Here we go._

_****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************_

“You know it’s the full moon tonight,” Allison says as she walks over to where Scott and Isaac are switching out books at their lockers before fifth period.

“You’re the second human to say that to me today,” Isaac replies.  “Shocking as it may seem; we figured that out on our own.”

“What about it?” Scott wonders.

“It’s the first one since Stiles came home,” she replies.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Isaac,” Scott scolds.  “He’s her friend too; she can be worried about him.”

“Can he handle it?” Allison wonders, tone more businesslike than full of concern.  “I know he’s been fine and under control for the most part, but this is different.  If he gets out—”

“He won’t,” Scott promises.

“We want to help,” she tells him.

“Help with what?”

“Making sure he doesn’t hurt anyone,” she replies.  “If he does, he’s fair game according to the Code; you know that.”

“You wouldn’t hurt Stiles,” Scott replies incredulously as Isaac uses every ounce of self-control he possesses not to slam her against the wall for the suggestion in the statement.

“We know Stiles, and we understand the situation is complicated.”

It doesn’t escape Isaac that it’s not an outright assurance they wouldn’t hurt him, It’s Allison and Chris; they’ve been good allies since the details of Victoria’s bite came to light and the threat of the Alpha Pack forced an alliance.  Nevertheless, at the end of the day, they’re still hunters.

 “Other hunters won’t care,” she continues, “They’ll see it as grounds enough to act—maybe even on the whole pack.  It’s not a risk you should take.”

“He’ll be fine,” Isaac insists.

"We’re ready to help whether you want it or not,” Allison persists.  “We’ll have tranq darts and arrows—no wolfsbane, don’t worry—and we’ll be up and down the street all night.”

“You’re going to guard him?”

“Well, all of you technically, but we’ve seen the rest of you control the shift on a full moon. He’s the biggest wild card.”

"Dude, it’s not a bad plan,” Scott says.  “The more levels of containment the better, right?”

_I don’t care how fucking logical it is.  Hunters casing our block ready to move in and fire on us? If I’m pissed at the idea, then Derek’s sure going to be livid. And he has a fucking right to be._

"We just want to help,” Allison emphasizes again.  “The peace between your pack and us is holding well enough even though we don’t need each other’s help anymore.   I don’t think anybody wants to see that get shot to hell, and I know none of us want to see Stiles get hurt or hurt anyone else.”

“Patrol if it makes you feel better,” Isaac replies with a dismissive shrug, feigning nonchalance, as the anger bubbles under the surface, “but he’s going to be fine.”

_And even if he’s not, if you hurt him, there will be hell to pay. He’s our friend, our pack, and none of your damn business._

“Thanks for wanting to help,” Scott adds so sweetly Isaac could smack him.

He knows Scott’s crazy about her.  You can’t help who you fall for; it’s just a fact of life.   He also knows Allison means well enough, but the fact still stands that she and Chris would take Stiles down if they thought he was too much of a threat.  Of course, Scott would never believe they’d go to that extreme, but he sees too much of the good in people sometimes; then again, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Scott.

“Of course,” Allison replies, returning the smile.  “And—uh—tell him I said ‘hey’ okay? I hope he’s doing better.”

The statement lets through just a bit of the old Allison, but only for a moment before the careful mask of the hunter takes over again.

_***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************_

Stiles hates himself for giving in, for finally walking into the kitchen and pulling the ingredients down from the cabinets and setting to work like they taught him to.  He hates the tranquility he feels once he relinquishes the struggle.  He hates that he doesn’t even have the willpower to try and do this his own way but instead measures carefully and calmly, making as little mess as possible.

_Learn to cook. Learn to clean. Learn to blow. Learn to fuck. Be a good little beta._

_Look at me. I’m fucking pathetic.  This is pathetic._

“You okay, Stiles?” Derek wonders quietly from the doorway.

"Yes, Derek,” he answers, trying to control his trembling and keep a grip on the mixing bowl as the need to surrender wars with the urge to rebel. “I just—I need something simple.”

_Please don’t think I’m weak.  I just know if I don’t give in to something I’m going to lose control entirely; I can feel it coming in my bones and I don’t want to lose the memories.  What if you can’t talk me back like last time?_

“Makes sense,” Derek replies.  “Can I help?”

 “Yes, Derek. Of course.”

The words may be automatic, but the answer’s sincere.  He smiles, hoping Derek sees that. 

_You’re a paradox of frightening and comforting right now, but I want you here either way._

“Thanks. What kind of cookies are we making?” he wonders, determinedly keeping his tone casual; Stiles appreciates him playing along more than he can say.

“Whatever you like, Derek.”

“Snickerdoodles,” Derek answers “That good with you?”

They’re Stiles’ favorite, not Derek’s, and the gesture in the reply is clear.  Derek extends his hand out toward Stiles slowly enough that he can manage to contain his flinch.

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles answers with a smile, reaching for the hand while there’s still enough of himself left above the conditioning to brave it.

He holds on tightly, and Derek clings back.  He comes to work as Stiles’ second hand, like Lydia did weeks ago.

_I thought I’d gotten better than that. I’m better than this. I’m supposed to be better than this.  I’m supposed to get them out of my head. Why can’t it just go away?_

But the simplicity of the training is the only thing keeping him calm enough to stay sane right now, so he just squeezes Derek’s hand tighter, using it to anchor what bits of himself remain in this moment.

_Just make it through tonight.  It’ll be okay.  Just one night.  I can do this._

_************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************_

 

“Derek?” Isaac calls through the house as he comes in.  “Stiles?”

Derek goes to intercept him in the entryway.

“Hey, how was school?”

“School was fine. How’s Stiles?”

“Coping,” Derek replies.  “School doesn’t get out for another hour, Isaac.”

“It’s the full moon; I was worried about you two; and I wasn’t paying attention anyway,” Isaac quips back moodily.

“Don’t make it a habit.”

“Don’t talk like you’re my Dad.”

“Isaac—”

“I’m not going to fucking flunk out. If I could keep a 3.5 with the alphas raining down on us, I can handle missing a few classes today.”

Derek counts to three before he replies, willing the extra animosity today brings to subside because a fight won’t help anyone right now.

"I didn’t say you would flunk out; I said don’t make it a habit.”

 “Fine, okay? Won’t make it a habit. Are we good here?” 

Derek nods curtly, and Isaac wonders, “So where’s Stiles? You said he’s ‘coping’?

“He’s in the kitchen,” Derek replies.  “Walk slow,” he adds when Isaac pushes past him to head that way.

Isaac pauses and turns.  “How bad is he?”

_Scary bad._

“He was holding out pretty good for a while,” Derek replies aloud, “and then he slipped just a little and it progressively got worse.  Now we’re to the point that me being just being in the room makes him skittish and tense, so I’ve been keeping some distance.”

“Fuck,” Isaac responds before adding angrily, “You should’ve called me.”

"He’s okay,” Derek counters, “just not his usual self.  I’d’ve called if it was anything too serious.”

“You don’t think regression counts as serious?”

“I think we both know there’s only so far we can help him and then he has to pull himself out.  He didn’t get really bad until about half an hour ago; you were going to be home soon enough anyway.”

“You should’ve called me,” Isaac repeats.

“You should get to be a normal senior for six hours without having to worry about us,” Derek counters.  “If it’s an emergency, I’ll call you, but otherwise something in your life should be fucking normal.  It’s not your job to take care of everybody else all the time. You should do shit for yourself too.”

“What? Like you do?” Isaac counters.  “Name one thing you’ve done for yourself lately.”

_Been selfish enough to risk being with you and Stiles._

“I called a contractor this morning,” Derek says instead; it’s the one slightly bright spot in the middle of this shitstorm day that’s not nearly over.

“Seriously?” Isaac wonders, all aggravation suddenly overshadowed with surprise. 

“Yes.”

“Dude!”

“I’m meeting him tomorrow,” Derek adds, glad for anything that dampens the general aggression.

Isaac’s grin is so wide it looks almost painful.  Derek can’t help reciprocating.

“I can’t believe you’re actually going to do it!”

Derek shrugs.  “Timing just seemed right.”

_We’re rebuilding a pack, rebuilding Stiles, why not rebuild the house while we’re at it._

“Once we make it through tonight and Stiles is back to normal tomorrow, I’m grilling you for plans, so brace yourself,” Isaac advises, moving toward the kitchen again. 

_***********************************************************************************************************************************************_

Isaac hears Stiles murmuring now; it’s as eerie and unsettling as ever.

“Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home. No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home.  No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home…”

“Stiles?”

He’s not surprised when he gets no reply.  Stiles is essentially in a trance, engrossed in making what seems to be a peach cobbler.  There’s a few dozen cookies on the counter too. 

“Stiles, you’re right. You’re safe. No one’s going to get hurt tonight,” Isaac tries again, but there’s still no visible sign Stiles can even hear him. 

He goes back out to the table where Derek’s taken a seat. 

“At least it’s not all conditioning,” Derek says, clearly trying to find the silver lining here.  “Right? He’s repeating his words, not theirs. It could be worse.”

“Yeah, I guess, but—damn.”

“If this is the worst he gets on a full moon, I’m counting it lucky.”

"If,” Isaac agrees. 

 There’s something else on Derek’s mind, a worry in his eyes he’s not sharing.

 “What else is wrong?” Isaac pries, dreading the answer already.

 “Has he ever talked to you about what happened with he was with the alphas?”

 “No, not really.  Just a vague explanation here or there—the stuff he says when he dreams or has flashbacks. Why?”

“No hunting, no hurting,” Derek answers.  “He keeps saying that—and earlier he made me promise I wouldn’t make him hurt anyone or let him hurt anyone because he says they made him a weapon, not just a servant.”

“A weapon?” Isaac repeats.  “No. He’s not a weapon; look at him. He—”

“He followed orders without question,” Derek replies.   “He’s said more than once he doesn’t want to hurt anyone ‘again’.  Then there’s the way he couldn’t understand humans being tolerated—maybe we missed a big piece of the trauma.”

“Are you saying he helped them fight us?”

“I’m saying it’s possible.”

“We would have noticed if it was him.”

“There were plenty of attacks we didn’t know about until too late.  Attacks on families, attacks on civilians—we know they were sending out other betas as pawns.”

“Not Stiles. It would’ve been too risky.”

“Maybe.”

_No, no, no.  Don’t put this idea in my head. Don’t make me think about him like that. Don’t make me wonder if he lit the match at Jackson’s or sliced open Lydia’s mom.  Don’t make me wonder how many times he was with the other betas that fled when we got there. Don’t make me wonder if I was slashing at him as he ran._

But now the idea’s there it won’t go away.  Because the logic makes sense. It’s entirely plausible. 

_How could we not think of this?_

“Say he did hurt people under their orders,” Isaac concedes for a moment. “You think he remembers it?”

“If he does, it’d be on the long list of things he never talks about.”

Stiles voice carries in from the kitchen in the ensuing silence.

“Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home.  No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home.”

_She was right. We’re not equipped to handle this.  No matter how much we hope we are._

“Ms. Morrell called me to her office today,” Isaac says. “She wanted to talk about Stiles.”

“What about Stiles?” Derek demands, already on the defensive, and Isaac can’t blame him.

“She wants to help him.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She says she’ll make an exception to her rule about not getting too involved with the pack.  She says he needs more help than we can give him.”

“So?”

“So what if she’s right?”

“Absolutely not,” Derek replies through gritted teeth.  “It will be a cold day in hell before Holly Morrell has anything to do with this pack, you understand me? We don’t need her help.  Stiles will be fine.”

 

_************************************************************************************************************************************************************_

_No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home. No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home. No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home. No hunting. No hurting. Safe. Safe and home. Isaac. Derek. Dad. Scott. Lydia. Jackson. Safe. Safe and home._

_******************************************************************************************************************************************************_

 

 Scott and Jackson arrive well before moonrise. They’re all in the den, trying hard not to be too spooked by Stiles’ now-hoarse voice still mumbling to himself in the kitchen.  Derek still figures if they get through the night with just this regression, they’ll be doing okay.  Nevertheless, they’re all on edge; the full moon would be enough, but the danger of Stiles potentially shifting combined with the knowledge that the Argents are patrolling takes the stress up several levels.  Derek can hear Chris’ SUV every time it passes in front of the house.  It’s all he can do to rein in the insistent instinct to go challenge the threat. 

 He’s literally just watching the minutes tick by, finding the clock on the wall no more satisfactorily distracting than the rerun of Friends on the television.  It’s exactly 9:22 when an ambulance comes screaming by and all hell breaks loose.  They know Stiles is shifted by the bone-chilling howl that escapes as the sirens assault his ears.  Scott’s the first to reach the kitchen, speaking in soothing tones, but Stiles either doesn’t hear or isn’t moved; he’s attacking almost the moment Scott’s in sight, landing two deep slashing blows before Isaac pushes him back, trying to restrain Stiles without hurting him.  Everyone shifts in the havoc that follows, all trying to rein in their wolf enough to avoid an all-out fight with Stiles as he attacks them mercilessly.  In the end, Derek resorts to shifting fully into alpha form and releasing a growl that has all four of them cowering against the cabinets. 

_*********************************************************************_

He takes in the carnage around him: blood splattered on the white tile, still-healing wounds on the other betas, glass and porcelain shattered everywhere.  The rest of the pack stares, including the Alpha who’s back to his beta form now.  He realizes in horror that he started it all. He lost control and struck them all. Maybe even attempted to fight his Alpha.

_Yo _u never, ever strike a superior pack member. If you raise a hand against them, you lose the hand.__

_You were bad. Very bad. You will be punished._

“Please, Alpha, please,” he begs frantically, backing into the corner and curling in on himself, unable to stop the pathetic pleas as the Alpha approaches. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. I don’t know what happened, Alpha, but I won’t do it again. I know the rules. I can be better. I can be _good,_ Alpha, please I—”          

“I know you can be good,” Alpha says earnestly.  “You _are_ good.  You didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“No, Alpha, never!” he agrees readily, still struggling to believe the merciful words as he remains braced for the blows that will certainly still come.

_Be ready for what he deals out to you. Show him you can learn._

“Can you look at me? In the eyes?” Alpha asks.

“Yes, Alpha,” he complies quickly, lifting his head and pulling his eyes up. 

There’s deep discontent in the Alpha’s gaze, and guilt and fear churn in his stomach at the idea he’s the cause of so much unhappiness in his Alpha.  Still, at least there’s not much anger, if he’s good now, if he can show how sorry he is, maybe the Alpha will be lenient.

_Maybe just a beating? Maybe not the full punishment? Oh, please, Alpha, please._

“Do you know my name?” the Alpha wonders.

Y _ou’re my Alpha. I’m your beta. That’s the only identification that matters._

“Please, Alpha, I don’t—I don’t understand.”

The Alpha’s face falls at the reply, and he says quietly, “My name is Derek.  Call me Derek, okay?”

“Yes, Derek.”

_See? I don’t have to understand to obey. I can learn. I can be better. I’m a good beta._

Your name is Stiles,” Derek adds. 

“Stiles,” he repeats unquestioningly. “Yes, Derek.”

_Anything you want, Derek._

“Can you—I know all you have in your head right now is training, but do you—can you see past that? Can you see _you_ , Stiles? Can you see past your place as a beta?”

He understands the words but can’t comprehend what they mean.

“Alpha, I’m sorry.  I don’t und—”

“I know it sounds confusing,” Derek interrupts, “but try to remember.  Focus. Try to find your memories, not your _conditioning_ , your _memories_. Think like _you_ , not just like a beta.  Try and find the memories from before.”

_There is nothing before. Nothing but training. I am a beta. That is my place. My purpose. My reason to be kept. I exist to be a good beta.  I don’t understand what else you could want._

“Forgive me, Derek. I can’t—there’s nothing before—just—just training,” he admits despondently.

 _But it was full training._   _I know what to do. I know how to be good. I can be a good beta._

“Just training,” Derek repeats, and the disappointment in the Alpha’s voice sends Stiles into a tizzy of panic, sure the grace he’s undeservingly been granted will cease if he angers the Alpha again so soon.  “Nothing else?”

“I’m sorry, Derek, so sorry. Show me, Derek, please,” he beseeches. “Let me learn. I can learn, Derek. I promise. I can be better. I can be good. Whatever you want I can—”

“Stop,” Derek instructs, and he silences the supplications with a whine.  “It’s okay, Stiles.  You’re not in trouble. You’re not going to be punished.  You don’t need to be afraid.”   

“Thank you, Derek,” he replies gratefully, baffled at the continuing mercy, “thank you. I can make it up to you, Derek. I—”

“Can you get up?” Derek wonders.

“Yes, Derek,” he replies, getting quickly to his feet, ignoring the protests of his few wounds and tense muscles. 

_Whatever you want, Derek. I can be good._

************************************************************************

 

_Why didn’t that work? Why can’t he get to the memories? What’s going on in his head? How the fuck do I get him back?_

Stiles stands complacently before him, head bowed, eagerly waiting for more instructions as Derek fumbles to figure out what to do.  He looks the others but it’s apparent they’re all struggling to hold it together too.

_Maybe I need to give him memories?_

 He doesn’t know how else to trigger it if Stiles can’t figure out how to get back to the recovered memories on his own.

“Stiles, I know you have training and conditioning,” Derek says.

"Yes, Derek,” Stiles confirms dutifully. “I can be good,” he promises, and goddammit those four words and every variation of them twist a knife in Derek’s heart _every fucking time._

 “Yes,” Derek agrees aloud, forcing a smile because it’s what this Stiles needs, “I know.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“But being a good beta is different in this pack than what’s in your head.”

“I can learn to be better, Derek. I swear I can learn—”

“I know,” Derek assures, “I know you can, Stiles. I want to show you if that’s all right.  I’m going to give you a memory of the pack, okay?”

“Yes, Derek, please.”

“I’m sorry this is going to hurt,” he says as he reaches for the back of Stiles’ neck. 

“I want to learn; thank you, Derek.”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************

 

_There are eight around a table. He sees from Derek’s view that there are four betas: Stiles and the three others here now.  With them sit three humans. Derek’s not speaking, just enjoying the moment as the others eat and chatter, smiles on everyone’s faces.  There’s happiness and contentment; no fear, no pain._

“Thank you, Derek,” he says automatically as he comes back to the moment still trying to understand the lesson in the memory. 

There must be a lesson. Memories are for lessons. Memories are for teaching.  Derek said he wanted to show him the pack. 

_But what do I do with the memory?_

“That’s how pack works here,” Derek says answering the question for him.  “I want you happy, not afraid, you understand?”

“Yes, Derek, I can be happy for you.”

_I can smile. I can hide any fear. I can be happy. I can be good._

Derek looks even more wearied by the answer, but doesn’t say anything further.  He runs a hand down his face, and Stiles can see the unhappiness.  He can feel the distress building at the sight of his Alpha displeased.  He wants to fix it, but he’s not sure what to do. 

B _e happy, but what else? What else am I missing? What do you want? What should I do?_   

                       

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Don’t be afraid, Stiles,” Derek soothes as Stiles begins to tense again. “I’m not angry at you, I’m just—” _flipping my shit and trying to be quiet about it_ “ _—_ processing. Nothing’s wrong, okay?”

_It’s so wrong. So fucking terribly wrong. How do I get you back? Are we starting over from square one? Am I biding time until you snap back like last time? What the fuck am I supposed to do?_

"Yes, Derek,” Stiles answers in the automated tone Derek’s come to hate with such a passion. “Thank you, Derek.”

                       

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They clean up the kitchen together. Stiles’ face is sporting a smile so forced it looks like it’s screwed in place, but nobody knows how to explain that’s not what Derek meant when he said he wanted Stiles happy.  The aggression might have dispersed, but there’s still an almost palpable sense of anxiety lingering in the room.  Stiles keeps his hands busy and moving, but any time they pause it’s easy to see they’re still trembling. Isaac wants to wrap his hands around Stiles’ and talk himself blue in the face until Stiles understands that he doesn’t have to be afraid. 

_Do we play along? Do we try to explain? How do we get you back?_

Derek’s had time to give him another memory of pack—one of the days at the pond—but Stiles still seems more confused than helped by it. 

_It’s just the full moon. It’ll pass.  We’ve just got to get through tonight.  He’ll come back. We’re not going to lose him again.  He’ll remember.  He has to._

“That’s clean enough, Stiles,” Derek says when Stiles keeps scrubbing the cabinets even after the other have finished. 

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies, ceasing the chore.

“You can go watch TV with the others if you want to,” Derek offers.

"Thank you, Derek.”

He stands, washing out the rag he was using, wringing it out, and hanging it carefully on the hook by the sink.  Isaac lingers in the kitchen, eyes finding Derek’s and seeing the same question there they’ve all had all night: _What the hell do we do?_

"I’ll just have to keep giving him memories,” Derek says in quiet answer to the unasked question. “Even if we don’t get him back tonight, he’ll be better tomorrow.”

“And if he’s not?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just turns to retreat out the back door.  Isaac follows, taking a seat next to him on the edge of the porch and reaching for his hand.

“If we have to start at the beginning again,” Derek says after a few minutes silence.  “Then we start at the beginning again.”

“And start over every full moon?”

“Not every full moon,” Derek replies.  “We’ll come up with a better plan next time. I won’t—I won’t scare him again. We’ll—”

“Hey, this is not your fault,” Isaac interrupts.  “We were all on the verge of blindly attacking.  You stepped in when you had to.”

“We should have prepared for this better,” Derek continues.  “We should’ve—we should’ve—”

“We didn’t know what would happen,” Isaac says.  “Not even Stiles really knew.  We’ll figure it out better next time, but this was nobody’s fault.”

Derek nods but doesn’t believe him.

“But maybe,” Isaac adds quietly, “maybe this is the kind of stuff that—uh—that Ms. Morrell could help with? If he talked to her, if she knew more about what they did, she might know what we should expect, she could help us figure out how to make sure he doesn’t—”

 “I’m not trusting her with him.”

 There’s no room for argument in the response, and now’s not the best time to discuss it anyway.  Isaac shrugs, letting the topic go for now.

  _I’m not sure we’re going to have a choice._

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

He’s exhausted to the core, though he’s not entirely sure why.  He’s anxious for a task, but the Alpha simply instructed him to watch the television with the other betas.  He’s careful to pay attention, not sure what part of this information the Alpha thinks would make him more useful, but following orders nonetheless.  He can feel his attention begin to waver as his eyes droop.

 “Dude, you’re falling asleep where you sit,” the beta called Scott observes. “Why don’t you go to bed? We’ll watch out for you.”

 _No. I can’t. It’ll be time to hunt, soon, surely. I have to help with the hunt. If I don’t…_ _He shudders at the thought._

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees. “I can show you where your room is if you—”

 “No,” he protests. “No, I’m not tired.”

 “It’s okay,” Derek says.  “You can sleep—or rest at least.  Isaac can show you your room.”

 It’s not exactly an order, but it’s a clear conveyance of what the Alpha wants. 

 “Yes, Derek.”

 He follows Isaac upstairs.  The room he’s led too can’t possibly belong to a beta, confirming that going to bed has nothing to do with getting any real rest.  It smells strongly of the Alpha and Isaac; he wonders which of them will make use of him tonight.

_Maybe just Isaac.  Maybe the ones the others bring from the hunt will be enough to tire Derek. Maybe he’ll just want to watch. Maybe the Alpha won’t punish my weakness himself._

It’s a small hope, but he’ll take mercy where he can.

“So—uh—here’s pajamas,” Isaac says, taking a set of clothes from the drawer and handing them to Stiles.  “You can put those on.”

"Yes.”

“And—uh—just relax okay? You’re safe. You don’t have to worry.  You can just sleep.”

_Safe from what? Hunters? Of course they can’t get past five of us. Even if there’s only one Alpha with us, the humans are still no real match.  Sleep? Why would you want me to sleep? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand._

“I know it’s confusing,” Isaac says, “but we really do just want you to be happy.”

_I smiled.  I kept my hands clenched to hide the trembling. I thought I was doing what he wanted._

“I can do better,” Stiles promises. “I can—”

“You don’t have to do better. You’re fine like you are.”

_No, I’m not. I was bad. I’m being punished; I can’t hunt to find a replacement.  I can’t be fine.  I need to learn; I need to be better._

“Try to get some rest, okay? If you need anything at all, we’re right downstairs.”

 

******************************************************************

 

It’s a long time before Stiles’ heartbeat slows enough to indicate sleep.  Derek’s not sure if that makes him more or less relived.  It was clear Stiles needed rest, but with this shoddy control, there’s every chance he could sleep shift.  In the end, he goes out in the yard to keep an eye on the window escape, trusting that the betas would stop Stiles if he shifted and tried to get out through the house. He hopes he’s being overly cautious; he hopes Stiles will just get some simple rest; but he knows better than to bank on hope.

When Stiles does wake, he wakes screaming.

“No, please!” he shrieks, voice piercing through the relative quiet. “I didn’t mean it! I swear I didn’t! They made me! I didn’t know what I was doing! Please, Derek, no! Isaac! Scott!! Jackson, please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—”

Isaac bursts in the room just as Derek reaches the window.

“Stiles, wake up!” he implores.  “It’s just a nightmare.  You’re okay; just wake up.”

The moment he opens his eyes he’s clinging desperately to Isaac, sobbing uncontrollably as Isaac tries in vain to sooth him. 

“I’m sorry,” he wails, “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it; I didn’t understand I just—I just—I was scared, so scared—but I didn’t mean it; I swear, I didn’t. I didn’t.  I’m so fucking sorry I—”

“Shhh,” Isaac calms, “It’s okay, Stiles. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“But it’s not, it’s not, okay; it’s—”

He either doesn’t have to words to say what ‘it’ is or doesn’t have the will to explain ‘it’.  Regardless, everything else is lost to the next round of heaving cries.  There’s a little relief in the fact that this is the breakdown of a Stiles with some level of restored memories, but it does nothing to help the anguish at seeing him so broken.  Derek doesn’t even know how Stiles is managing to draw breath through the tears and garbled lamentations.  Jackson, Scott, and Derek look on helplessly as Stiles continues to weep into Isaac’s shoulder.  Isaac’s pained eyes meet Derek’s, clearly looking for another way to help, but they don’t even know the problem.

“Stiles,” Derek says gently.  “We don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you—can you tell us what you mean?”

“Yes, Derek,” he replies automatically before begging, “No, Derek, no, please, don’t ask me to. Please don’t make me. _Please._ ”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.  No one’s going to make you. We just want to help. I just thought it might—”

“Can we do anything else?” Scott wonders.  “You don’t have to tell us what happened or what scared you—just how to make it like—less?  Distraction or—”

“Just don’t leave.  I dreamt you were all leaving so just—don’t? Please?”

“Sure thing,” Scott replies. 

“Not even Jackson.”

“Yeah, fine,” Jackson replies. “ _Must_ be a rough night if he’s asking for me.”

Derek stifles the urge to belt him only because the normalcy of the banter gets the faintest of smiles from Stiles. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs in agreement, “rough night. Thanks.”

It’s clear he’s cried himself to an even further state of exhaustion than when he first came up to bed. 

“Come on and lay back down,” Isaac suggests.  “Everyone’s staying.  You’re safe. It’s okay. You can sleep.”

“I want—I need—I need the medicine. I’m not—I could shift next time and hurt someone—I don’t want to hurt anyone. _Please._ ”

As much as Derek hates the idea of drugging Stiles, he doesn’t have the heart to say no.  Stiles has a point anyway; it’s probably safer for everyone and safer for Stiles—and Stiles’ mental state—to let him pass the last hours of the full moon in restful sedation.  It’s an option they perhaps should’ve explored beforehand, and another glaring realization that they’re just mucking through this the best they can. 

“Yeah, okay,” Derek agrees, “Be right back.”

He fetches the sedative from the bathroom, carefully measuring the dosage into a syringe.  By the time he’s back to the bedroom, Scott and Jackson have found places on the floor; Isaac’s still next to Stiles on the bed, one arm tight around Stiles’ shoulders.

“Thanks,” Stiles says with a weary smile as Derek comes to sit with them and reaches for Stiles’ arm.  “Sorry I’m such a raging pain in the—”

“Shut up,” Derek replies affectionately.  “You’re not a pain, Stiles.”

"Debatable,” Jackson mutters from the floor.

“Fuck off,” Stiles quips back with another small smile, speech already slurring as he eases himself back onto the bed. 

Isaac and Derek take their usual places on either side, holding Stiles hands tight, Isaac getting as close as possible on one side while Derek throws his arm over the both of them.

“Doooon’ leave,” Stiles says again as he drifts off.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Isaac promises.

Though Stiles' breathing quickly evens out into the rhythms of blessedly dreamless unconsciousness, Derek’s far from sleep despite the fatigue he can feel down to his bones.  He’s been fighting the truth in Isaac’s earlier suggestion all night, but it’s clear in the past twelve hours alone that they really are in _way_ over their heads with Stiles.  He’s not so sure that Morrell’s much more of a match for it, but she’s a third party perspective, someone Stiles isn’t afraid to lose; maybe he’d talk more freely to her. Maybe she’d know the right questions to ask.

If Derek’s willing to dose Stiles up on sedatives to give Stiles peace of mind, he should be able to deal with Stiles needing some more experienced outside help. 

“We can talk to him tomorrow,” Derek says finally, knowing Isaac’s no closer to sleep than he is.  “If he wants to go to Morrell, I won’t stop him.”

                 


	23. Chapter 23

Ms. Morrell will be here in an hour.

Stiles is still torn about this.  He knows she’s good to talk to.  Sure she spouts cheesy Winston Churchill quotes sometimes, but, on the whole, she’s been a good counselor to all of them.  She’s just _also_ a really shitty pack Advisor or Guardian or whatever she and Deaton are calling themselves these days, an Advisor who apparently would have left Churchill to fend off the Germans himself. 

He knows both Isaac and Derek hate this for a myriad of reasons.  It reveals a hell of a lot about just how fucking scared they are that they’d even throw this option on the table for him to take if he wants.  And that’s exactly why he’s taking it.  Because they’re scared. They’re scared; they stay worried; they’ve already given more than enough, and they don’t intend to stop anytime soon; he can’t burden any of them with all the bullshit swirling around in his head on top of everything else.  He won’t.

_Not to mention they’d never look at me the same again. Not ever. And even if they didn’t kick me to the curb I still don’t know that I could stay with them knowing everything._

Ever since he got his memories back, he’s been gaining appreciation for the burden Derek carried in the years after the fire.  The only thing more terrifying than the thought of carrying this on his own for the rest of his life is the thought of anyone else finding out.  He thinks if he could tell anyone though, it would be someone like Ms. Morrell; she’s almost frighteningly objective, and he’s not worried about losing her. She’ll keep what he says to herself—hopefully—she says she will anyway.  Stiles wants to trust her, and he doesn’t know that he has much choice if he wants help sorting through the insanity.

 

************************************************************************************************************************

 

“So—uh—I—um—I asked Scott if he could get here a little before Morrell comes,” Stiles says, walking into the kitchen where Derek’s grabbing a glass of water and Isaac’s going for some of the cookies that came from yesterday’s baking frenzy.

“You think it’s going to take three of us?” Derek asks.

“No—uh—I was—I was actually kind of thinking just Scott?”

“Just Scott?”

“Yeah.”

The dismissal in the statement is clear, but Isaac pushes a little anyway. 

“You don’t want us to stay?” he asks, trying not to sound too pathetic.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to stay—I just—I think maybe—maybe I’d be a little less self-conscious with Scott?” Stiles says almost guiltily. “But seriously, it’s not—it’s not you guys or anything you did or anything it’s just—”

“Whatever helps you,” Derek says, interrupting the unneeded apologetic explanation. “It’s fine if you’d rather Scott stay.”

The request makes sense. No matter how much closer Isaac, Derek, and Stiles have gotten these past weeks, it doesn’t trump a lifelong friendship with Scott.  Besides, Scott’s—well, he’s Scott.  He sees the good in just about everybody, especially his friends. If he did happen to hear something Stiles didn’t want him to, he’d take it in stride the best of anybody.   The logic of the decision is perfectly sound.

But that doesn’t mean Isaac _likes_ it. Judging by the firm set of his jaw and determinedly neutral look on his face, Derek doesn’t like it either, but he’s stowing his reaction for Stiles’ sake.

“You guys should get out of the house anyway,” Stiles adds. “Go do something normal.  Grab food. See a movie.”

“Food and a movie? We’re supposed to go on a date while you’re at therapy?” Isaac asks incredulously.

“Well, yeah, you could—”

“You can’t seriously expect us to—”

“Why the hell not? Look, you two have been cramped in this house with me for weeks now.  You barely do anything else. It has to be driving you nuts, and it makes me feel awful.”

“Stiles, you know we don’t mind,” Isaac reminds for what seems the millionth time. “We _want_ to—”

“I know,” he swears. “I know, and I love you both for it.”

Isaac’s heart stutters just a little at the phrase even though he knows Stiles doesn’t mean it like _that._

"But this is one time I think I might be better without you,” Stiles confesses regretfully.  “I just—I don’t—I don’t want you to think it’s _you._ I just—”

“You don’t have to apologize for it,” Derek interrupts. 

_He’s right.  So what if we’re a little hurt or miffed you’d rather have Scott? You still don’t owe us apologies._

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees. “The whole point of this is to help you.”

“I know that’s the point, and that’s why I think you two should seriously go have some fun.  _Everything_ we do is about trying to help me, and I appreciate the hell out of it. I really, _really_ do.  There’s no way I could sort through this shit without you, but it’s a marathon, not a sprint, ya know?”

However cheesy that sounds, it’s a decent point.

“You’ve _got_ to do fun random shit for yourselves sometimes too or we’re all going to go insane. We’re got to get to a better balance. Therapy’s supposed to help me relax, so you two should go do something fun to relax too, right?”

 _Relax? Away from you while a non-pack human who we barely trust is picking at your traumatized brain? Yeah sure, we’ll totally be able to relax_ Isaac thinks irritably, fighting the urge to argue it out loud.  _How do you think we’re going to go out and have fun and concentrate on anything other than the fact that you’re not with us?_

It’s not far from the “you should get to be a normal senior for six hours” speech Derek gave him yesterday.  It’ just a pointless. He’s _not_ a normal teenager. No one here is normal.  Their lives are fucking ridiculous, and while that can damn sure get overwhelming sometimes, it’s just the way things are.  It’ll be fine to go be distracted a while, but that doesn’t mean magically transporting to a place where these issues don’t exist. 

_Life’s a bitch. The whole point is finding little good points amongst the rest of the shit.  I don’t need a retreat. I just need positive progress and I’m good._

But if it helps Stiles focus on therapy to think he and Derek are out on a date, they can go choke down a few burgers before they come back. 

_Just as long as this is really you being self-conscious.  As long as you’re not pushing us away._

 

*************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I can’t help but notice you chose for Scott to stay with you for this,” Ms. Morrell comments.

_Yeah, and I’m never going to forget the look on Isaac and Derek’s faces when I admitted Scott would make me less self-conscious even after everything they’ve done for me.  Add that to the list of things I can feel shitty about._

She sits in an armchair in the den, surrounded by a circle of mountain ash to ensure her safety and Stiles’ peace of mind.  She’s looking to the corner where Scott sits on the bean bag chair he dragged down from Stiles’ room, iPod turned up to tune out the words, eyes shut except when he opens them to peek that everything’s okay every couple minutes or so.

“He’s my best friend,” Stiles deflects. “Why wouldn’t I pick him?”

“I think we both know how close you’ve gotten to Isaac and Derek since you came back.”

“He’s still my best friend.”

“Stiles, you’ve always been incredibly forthcoming when we’ve talked in the past.  Sharing helps you, and we both know it.  I’d hoped that would continue; it’s the main reason I offered to get involved at all.  I think you know you need an objective listener, and I thought I might be your only real option.  If you’re not going to open up to me any more than you open up to your packmates, we’re both wasting our time.”

He glares moodily, hating how right she is.

_Yeah, well, things used to be a lot easier to ramble about.  If I start talking about this, I’m not sure if it’ll open floodgates I can’t stop._

“Fine,’ he replies.  “You want me to talk? Let’s talk. What do you want to hear?”

“How are you doing, Stiles?” she wonders.

“Great,” he answers sardonically.

“ _Stiles._ ”

 He stares at the floor a few moments longer, picking absentmindedly at the loose threads on the sofa cushion before he says, “You remember after the shit that went down with Matt,” he begins, “I was worried holding on just meant agony then and hell later?”

“I remember.”

“Well, looks like I was right to worry.”

She nods, a calm, pitying look in her eyes that Stiles resents beyond words. 

“You remember I also said you had to hold on as long as you could—fight against the agony to create more time for help to come,” she responds.

“Yeah, well help _didn’t_ come,” he retorts bitterly.  “I held on, and I fought and they figured out how to break me anyway and then dumped me off when they’d had their fun.”

The words escape him before he really means to even reply, and it’s an undeniable assurance that they were right to call Morrell.  They’re words Stiles needed to vent, whether he knew it or not and regardless of how traitorous he feels for having said them aloud; they’re also words that would shatter any of the pack.  He knows down to his core that they did all they could to save him, but it doesn’t change the fact that they failed.  He doesn’t _fault_ them, but it’s still a fact of life that they couldn’t rescue him.  He’s still not sure if it was a blessing or a curse that the alphas gave him back.

“You have help now,” she reminds.

“Yeah, but—I’m not—I’m not so sure it came in time.”

“No?”

He hesitates a moment before finally expounding, “If we’re keeping the drowning analogy then maybe—maybe they pulled me out once I’d already opened my mouth and sucked in that first breath of water.”

“You think you already drowned?”

“You can do CPR; you can get someone breathing again,” he concedes, “but if they’ve been too long without oxygen, there’s still damage.  Maybe I was too far gone to really be rescued anymore.”

“Perhaps,” she agrees, “but many survivors learn to cope with the complications of their accidents.  People can still lead fulfilling lives despite their handicaps.”

He smiles a little in spite of himself.

“Something amusing?” she wonders.

“Just—you’re the only person who’ll really admit I’m always going to be fucked up,” he replies.  She doesn’t respond, clearly waiting for elaboration. “I mean—I know you said it nicer than that, but everyone else acts like I’ll sort through this in few months—maybe a year or two—and then I’ll be more or less normal again—as normal as I get anyway—but I know—we all know whether they want to admit it or not—I’m never getting going to get over this.  I’m never going to get the conditioning completely out of my head.  I’m just going to learn how to live with it.”

It’s not _entirely_ true.  They’ve all made comments that it’ll “get better” they’re not promising it’ll go away, but the way the talk about things, the way they act, he knows they expect it to mostly recede; whereas Stiles knows it’s going to stay.  He’ll just get better and better at pushing past it every day and keeping the conditioning and fear tucked away.

She nods.  “Although, you do have a unique opportunity most trauma survivors do not.”

“Let Derek take the bad memories,” he guesses, and she nods again. 

He’d be disappointed if she hadn’t at least thought about suggesting the possibility.  It’s an answer that’d be a hell of a lot more effective than any of the other options.

“It sounds really good most days,” he admits.  “Like _really_ fucking good, but I just—I can’t.  I don’t—as much as I might want to erase it, it still happened.  It’s not like I can erase it from history.  It’d just be a void in my mind, and I’d want to know what was there if it was gone.  I’d pick at it and wonder about it and investigate it.  I’d hate walking around as a modified version of myself.  I just can’t.”

“Because it’s a tool the alphas used?” she wonders, getting closer to his reasoning that he expected her to.

“I know it’s an entirely different purpose for doing it than the alphas had,” he concedes, “but I can’t modify myself and my memories just to make life easier.  That’s not how life’s supposed to work.  It’s not about making things easy.  It’s about—I dunno—about putting one foot in front of the other even when things are shitty because that’s life. Right? You play the hand you’re dealt even if it sucks.  I mean it’s just—I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s fucking insane that I wouldn’t want to—”

“It’s perfectly sane,” she contradicts matter-of-factly.  “It says a great deal about your fortitude that you don’t want to take the easy way out.”

“It’s not just me that would get it easy,” Stiles replies. “It would be easier for all of them if I just—”

“This isn’t about them,” she says.  “It’s about—”

“Me?” he interrupts. 

“Yes.”

“ _Everything_ is about me.  They’re always worried about _me_.  Always thinking about _me_. Always trying to figure out how to help _me_.  It’s fucking—it’s—it’s—it fucking sucks.”

“You feel guilty that you need the attention,” she supposes.  “You’re used to being the friend who can offer assistance, not the friend who needs it.”

He nods, “But if I let Derek fix it,” he tells her, “if I got rid of it, they could go back to being normal. I wouldn’t need them so much. They could—”

“It’s clear they want to help you.”

“They shouldn’t have to. If I let—”

“Would you do any less if one of them had been hurt?  Would you want them to take a course of action they didn’t really want in an attempt to lift the burden off of you?”

 “No,” he replies grudgingly.

 “They _want_ to help you,” she repeats. “Let them.”

“I just—”

“You’re right,” she tells him.  “Help didn’t come; they didn’t rescue you; there was nothing more they could do.”

“I—”

“So let them do what they can now.  You’re not being selfish. They don’t think you’re a burden—Isaac nearly shifted in my office when I so much as suggested it—and you said it yourself: it’s about putting one foot in front of the other, but you don’t have to walk on your own.  Let them help you, and you’re all going to learn to live with it together.”

He doesn’t respond, and she adds, “You biggest challenge in rehabilitating will be _accepting_ the help they want to give you; you _need_ a support system. You _need_ them.  You can’t try to push yourself too far for the sake of sparing them.  You have to understand and accept the fact that, while you will eventually learn to cope with what happened, you aren’t capable of doing it on your own yet, and there is _nothing_ wrong with that.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he answers too readily.

“Not yet,” she counters, “but you’ll get there.  It’s not easy to accept weaknesses in order to work on them.”

“I already know I’m weak,” he replies morosely.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but the more important part is believing that’s _okay_ and it’s not your fault.”

“Why would I think it’s my fault?”

“Any number of reasons,” she replies. 

“Well that’s sufficiently vague. Thanks,” he quips.

“You know the answer to that question much better than I do,” she points out. 

He doesn’t meet her eyes then, choosing to stare out the window instead. 

“Do we really need to have this conversation?” he wonders; she’s touched a nerve, and she knows it.  “We both know how it goes.  I tell you what I feel guilty about; you tell me I shouldn’t. I end this session still feeling as guilty as when I started.”

“Guilty about what?” she wonders, clearly intending to pursue this topic regardless of Stiles’ aversion to the idea.

_That I let them take me. That I didn’t get away or give my friends more help getting to me.  That I  let the alphas train me into a subservient little shit they wielded as a weapon. That I’m too stubborn to just let Derek fix me—or leave so they don’t have to choose between what’s best for me and what’s best for them._

He shrugs the question off, hoping she won’t push.

“You can’t fix what you won’t face,” she says bluntly.  “We have to begin someplace. We can start here, or you can—”

“Fine,” he interrupts. “But first I want to know how the confidentiality part of this arrangement works.”

“Anything you say is solely between the two of us.”

“What about the ‘unless you think I’m a danger to myself or others’ part of things?” he wonders. “What about—”

“ _Solely_ between the two of us,” she repeats.  “This is not a normal counseling session.”

“So if I told you I’m secretly planning to murder the whole pack in their sleep,” he says.  “You wouldn’t feel obligated to let Derek in on that fun little fact?”

“I’ve stopped more than one rouge werewolf in my life,” she replies calmly.

There’s no direct threat in the statement, no assertion of power, no pride; it’s just a simple statement of fact, and the passive way she delivers it sends a chill up Stiles’ spine.  There’s no doubting the truth of the words.

“You already know I don’t believe in involving myself in larger dynamics whenever it can be avoided,” she continues. “I believe we can settle things between the two of us.”

He considers her words and the promise they hold.  The idea that he could actually, _finally_ get some of these horrible truths eating at his soul out in the open.  It’s simultaneously terrifying and liberating.

_Where do I even start? How do I even talk about this? Can I?_

*********************************************************************************************************

“You think we’re freaking him out again?” Isaac asks him worriedly once they’re driving out of earshot.  “Crowding him too much?”

_I wish that were it. We could fix that. We could work on it.  What’s really wrong is out of our league and over our heads.  We can’t help._

“I think he just needs to know we won’t hear what he says,” Derek replies. 

“And we’re supposed to go out and pretend he’s not home in therapy trying to—”

“I don’t fucking know, Isaac,” Derek interrupts exasperatedly, frustration he’s been holding in for Stiles’ benefit breaking through now he’s with Isaac.  “What else are we supposed to do? What do you want me to say? He doesn’t want us there; whatever he’s got to say to her, he doesn’t want us to hear.  I fucking hate this just as much as you do! We’re supposed to be helping him, and he’s scared to tell us shit. Even after everything he still thinks we’d walk away, and that—that fucking sucks and it scares the shit out of me that the trust only goes so far, but I get it because I never told anyone the truth about the fire. There are things—there are things that don’t go away and that you can’t make better and you can’t take it back once people know and you know they’d never be able to look at you the same way. There’s shit you need to tell to people you don’t give a shit about, and if Morrell will be that person then—”

“Hey,” Isaac interrupts.  “Dude, hold on two seconds.”

“What?” Derek demands, trying to mask embarrassment at the outburst.

This happens more and more when he talks to Isaac, one moment of unleashing anger turns into unintentional words and emotions and all the bullshit he used to be able to keep in check.  He hates it, though there’s something oddly comforting in the level of trust such slips indicate. 

“I know we haven’t really talked about the fire. I figured you didn’t want to so I wasn’t going to make you,” Isaac answers, “but I’m glad I know.  Seriously. You’re right, I look at you different, but not _bad_ different. It just helps us understand where you’re coming from.”

Derek doesn’t reply just nods acknowledgement and reaches to turn the radio on; Isaac’s right. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Ever.

“And—and maybe it doesn’t go away,” Isaac continues, undeterred by the Springsteen song now playing in the background, “but it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

“I know that no matter how many times you tell me that,” Derek replies solemnly, “I’m never going to believe you.”

“Derek—”

“And Stiles wouldn’t believe us either,” Derek goes on, staring determinedly at the road without so much a glance at Isaac.  “Whatever he did as their ‘weapon,’  he’s always going to think it was his fault; he’s always going to blame himself to one degree or another.  Even if we never said it out loud, us knowing anything about what he did would just be a constant reminder. It’d make it worse, not better.”

Isaac’s quiet a moment or two before wondering, “Did it make it worse? Telling us about Kate?”

“It made it better for you two,” he replies. “That was the important thing.”

“But for you—did it make it worse?”

“Well, it damn sure didn’t make it _better._ ”

“Stop being cryptic. Talk to me,” Isaac implores.

“Look, I dunno, both okay? Sometimes it’s better because I don’t have to worry that you’ll find out, but most of the time it just makes it worse that you know how bad I fucked up and you still have to deal with me.”

_It makes me wonder how long it’ll be before it clicks that I don’t deserve to have a pack when I got my last one killed.  It makes me feel like you critique everything I do to see if I’m really acting more responsibly or if that selfish, idiotic teenager is showing through again.  It makes me wonder who else you might tell and what they might do.  It’s a weapon against me in your hands, and I want to trust you won’t use it, but I can’t._

“Derek—”

“Look, it’s fine, okay? Can we—can we not do this? You wanted an answer to the question; I answered the question. We’re done. Let’s go see a movie or grab something at Caroline’s or something.  ”

“If you ever did want to talk about it,” Isaac replies, “or if we could help—”

“I know,” Derek interrupts. 

Isaac wants to keep pushing, but he reins it in and Derek relaxes just a fraction. Instead of saying anything further, Isaac just moves to put his hand over Derek’s where it rests on the console. It does more to lessen the strain on him than any conversation ever could, the solid reassurance that Isaac means it when he says knowing the truth about the fire doesn’t make him want to leave. 

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The tension disperses slowly as they get to Caroline’s and head inside.  There’s no way either of them is going to be carefree, but putting on the façade of normalcy for the benefit of the other patrons at least has them loosening up a bit.

 _Fake it til you make it,_ Isaac thinks wryly.

“So you never told me how the conversation with the contractor went this morning,” Isaac says.

Derek was supposed to go meet him in person, but given the severity of Stiles reaction to the full moon, he wouldn’t leave; he also wouldn’t hear of having any of the betas skip school to stay.  He settled for calling instead.

“Good,” Derek replies.  “There’s a couple things we can put on the fast track.  We might be able to start building by the end of the month if we can get the plans set.”

"The end of the month? Are you serious?”

_How much money did you offer people to get things going like that?_

“He says we can have a house by Christmas,” Derek adds with a grin he’s trying to keep in check, but his face lights up at the promise.  It takes every ounce of self-control Isaac has not to lean across the table and kiss that smile.

“Christmas?! Holy shit, Derek! We’re getting a house for Christmas?!”

“That’s the plan.  The architect should have some schematics for me to look at in the next couple of days.  The contractor’s working on getting all the permits.  There’s a lot of things in the air right now, but—”

“But we’re getting a house,” Isaac repeats, still giddy at the idea of it.  “Even if it takes longer than that, we’re getting a house, a serious pack house. It’s actually happening.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a lull and he sits simply enjoying how relaxed Derek is for just a moment before breaking the silence by wondering, “So do I have an awesome room? Because I remember specifically requesting—”

“Everyone’s getting a room,” Derek replies, “plus a few extra. You can fight over them when I bring the plans home.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said money wasn’t a problem, were you?”

“No.”

“Exactly how loaded are we—you—the pack—whatever?”

“Enough,” he replies, purposely ambiguous.  “We’re not getting extravagant, but the house will be more than what we need.”

“You said the architect would have plans for you,” Isaac says.  “That mean it’s a different layout from the old house?”

Derek nods.  “And a different place.”

_Good call. New house on top of the basement ruins where your family burned and you were later held and tortured isn’t really the foundation we’d want—literally or figuratively._

“Where?” Isaac wonders; there’s enough Hale family land that there’s endless possibilities.

“I thought—I mean it’s not set in stone or anything—but I was thinking closer to the pond?”

“That little clearing on the north side a few hundred yards off?” Isaac guesses.

“Yeah,” Derek answers, smiling that Isaac can visualize it too.  “What d’you think?”

“I think it sounds perfect, Derek,” Isaac assures him, finally giving in to the impulse to lean across the table for a quick, chaste kiss. “It’s all going to be perfect.”

_This is going to be good. However insane and frustrating and frightening the rest of it gets, this will be good for us. It’s a step in the right direction. It’s going to strengthen the family. It’s going to be awesome._

 

 ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” Scott wonders, plopping on the couch next to Stiles as he returns from the kitchen with cokes for them both.

“Yeah, like I said, just processing, ya know?” Stiles replies. 

Morrell’s been gone maybe ten minutes, but he’s still mulling over everything they talked about.  It’s a lot to absorb.  He’s always known it was going to take a while, but realizing now that a mentally exhausting hour ends with only the most infinitesimal of steps forward makes it all seem so much more daunting. 

“But it helped and all?” Scott asks.  “Like mostly or whatever?”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“Cool.”

They’re quiet a moment or two longer.  Scott turns the television on to fill the silence between them, seemingly content to sit here quietly with Stiles as long as he’s wanted, and it’s pretty damn comforting.  He knows Scott saw his reactions to Morrell’s questions, just glimpses of the fear and anger and weakness in the moments when he peeked at them to check things were under control.  He has to have a million questions, but he doesn’t voice any, just chills with Stiles like it’s any other afternoon.

“Thanks for doing this,” Stiles says earnestly.

"Totally not a problem.”

“Seriously, I owe you one.”

“Pay me back in peanut butter cookies,” Scott replies with a grin.  “Or hey, even better, when you feel up to it we’ll hit up DQ for Butterfinger blizzards.”

“I think that one might take a while, dude.”

“Eh,” Scott replies with an unconcerned shrug.  “I can be patient. No worries.”

_Good, ‘cause this road back just keeps getting longer._

_"_ In the meantime, there’s always the drive-thru,” Scott adds.  “I know you feel safer here and all, but whenever you just want to get out of the house—”

“Sounds good,” Stiles agrees quickly, “actually, that sounds _really_ good. Like you wanna go now? I gotta get out of my head for a minute.”

“Hell yeah I’m good to go now,” Scott replies with a grin, hopping to his feet and fishing his keys from his pocket.  “Let’s go.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They get back to the house to find Stiles and Scott happily gobbling ice cream while yelling obscenities at the Angels for the error that just allowed two runs to be scored. Relief washes over Derek at the sight.  Though he’d received no warning text from Scott that Stiles had relapsed, he’d still been unsure what condition they’d find him in when they got home.

“I take it you didn’t opt for a movie,” Stiles observes with a  glance at the clock.  “How was dinner?”

“Good,” Isaac replies with a genuine smile.  “You seem pretty good yourself,” he adds. “Morrell helped?”

“Yeah, we just barely nicked the iceberg of issues, but it helped,”

The tension in Derek releases even more with the statement.

_It’s good.  It helps him. She helps him. It wasn’t a mistake.  It was what needed to be done._

"Awesome,” Isaac says as he takes a seat in the recliner.  “So what the hell is the Angels’ problem?”

“Dude, I don’t even fucking know,” Stiles rants.  

“The way they’re playing they might as well not even have bothered to show up,” Scott adds grumpily.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

"So—I, uh—I talked to Scott already. He says he’ll help too,” Stiles says hesitantly as they get ready for bed, “but I—I need—I need help with something tomorrow.  There’s some memories I need to get straight, and I want to be sure there’s enough of you to stop me or talk me back or whatever has to happen after.”

“Okay,” Isaac agrees readily. 

“Whatever you need,” Derek adds.

“And—um—so I think I need to go to the house we were in.”

“What house?”

“The—uh—the house I was in with the alphas—well one of the houses anyway—it’s not far, over on Graham Avenue by the—”

“Graham Avenue?” Derek interrupts.  “They kept you on Graham Avenue?”

“Not for long, a week or so maybe,” Stiles confirms, “and then we—” he stops, scrutinizing their reactions.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—just—I mean—we—we probably passed the place a dozen times when we were trying to find you.  We canvased that whole part of town because we knew they were someplace but couldn’t ever pinpoint it.”

“They were covering their tracks like crazy,” Stiles replies. “Plenty of ways to throw you guys off. It’s no wonder you didn’t find it.”

The excuse Stiles provides doesn’t do much to ease the sick feeling in Isaac’s stomach.  How close were they to Stiles all those weeks ago? How many times were they close enough to save him without realizing it?

_Could we have gotten you out of there sooner?_

“Anyway,” Stiles continues, pushing past any chance at apologies he clearly doesn’t want to hear, “I have to get some memories straight and I know if I retrace the steps I’ll—”

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Derek wonders.

They all know the real question is ‘are you sure you want any of those memories back?’

“There are things I only remember bits and pieces of.  I’m not always sure what was real and what was nightmares and what was planted in my head. I want to get it straight,” Stiles insists, “and—and I asked Morrell the same thing—asked if maybe it was better to just shove the fragments to the back of my mind and try to avoid it at least for a while.”

“And what’d she tell you?” Isaac wants to know.

“She said the choice was mine,” Stiles replies, “but she pointed out that if I seek out the memories then I set the terms on when I face them.  I mean sure, maybe I could keep a lot of it bottled up, but eventually it’s going to come to the surface.  Even if it doesn’t, it’ll still lurk in the back of my mind and be subconsciously fucking with my head.  So I think—I think maybe I want to be proactive with it.  I want to figure it out and sort it out and start putting it to rest as much as I can.”

 _You want to feel like you’re in control of the flashbacks,_ Isaac supposes. _You want whatever control you can get. It makes sense._

“And I can’t do it by myself,” Stiles says; there’s something determined and almost rehearsed in the words, but Isaac doesn’t point it out.  “I need help.”

“Whatever you need,” Derek repeats, “whatever helps.”

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles wakes screaming from nightmares three times before he gives in and opts for the tranquilizer again.  Derek tries unsuccessfully to avoid blaming Morrell too much.   He wonders if she pushed too hard for the first session. He wonders what they talked about. He wonders what the hell Stiles is going to be facing when he goes back to that house tomorrow.  Stiles may garner a few hours decent sleep with the aid of the sedative, but Derek’s honestly more exhausted when they get up the next morning than he was when they went to bed. 

_Are we even remotely ready for whatever’s coming?_

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“That one,” Stiles instructs as they near the end of Graham.

He sits unmoving in the car, staring at the aged, vacant, rental property.  Scott, Isaac, and Derek are waiting for him to move first, taking their cues from his reactions.  He can feel the too-familiar terror rising in him with just the thought of going inside, and seriously, _seriously_ considers aborting this plan altogether.  In the end, he reaches for the door handle with a trembling hand and steps out slowly.  Isaac’s beside him, holding his hand tight in reassurance as Stiles tries to stay collected. 

_I can do this. I have to do this. I can do this. It’ll be okay. I’ve got Isaac and Derek and Scott. It’ll be okay._

“So I—I just focus on the fragments I’ve got and—and try to retrace the steps, right? That’s all it should take?”

Derek nods.  “Stiles, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Derek,” he replies, and he sees the fear that rises in Derek’s eyes at the unbidden return to conditioned responses.

He moves before the fear can become a request not to do this.  With his control this shaky voiced reluctance from Derek just might be enough to stall this out.  He lets go of Isaac’s hand and takes the three quick steps needed to cross to the window.  The moment his knees hit the floor, he sees only the memory as it stitches back together in his mind.

_"Your first full moon, beta. Isn’t it beautiful?”_

_“Yes, Alpha,” he answers, daring to lift his gaze long enough to stare at the pale sphere in the sky that’s brought this surge of instinct and aggression to the surface._

_“You can feel the urge can’t you?” his Alpha wonders. “You feel the need to maim and kill and dominate singing through your veins.”_

_“Yes, Alpha.”_

_“Imagine how much stronger it is with your Alphas.” He shudders at the thought.  “You can imagine we have more use for you tonight than any other.  The primal instincts must be sated.”_

_“Yes, Alpha.”_

_“But we are not without mercy,” the Alpha continues.  “You are an investment in training, beta; we would not see you hurt beyond repair.”_

_“Thank you, Alpha.”_

_"You have been good; you’ve been obedient.”_

_"Thank you, Alpha,” he answers, suppressing a smile at the praise because the moment is clearly a serious one._

_"So tonight—and every other full moon provided you’ve done your duty to your pack—you and the other betas will be permitted to hunt for a replacement, an expendable human to take the edge from the instincts until the bloodlust of the moon abates.”_

_“Thank you, Alpha. Thank you,” gratitude rushing through him at the thought of escaping the wrath that must be building in his Alpha with the moon overhead._

_"This is a privilege.  You’re trusted to know the ways to please your alphas. It’s the reason you exist, and this is another way to prove you know what your alphas desire and you’re willing to please your pack. You may leave with the others.  They’ve been given their assignments already.  Yours is to find a human you believe would please me, understand?”_

_"Yes, Alpha. Thank you.”_

_“There will be hunters and rival packs out, but you must never be caught.  The embarrassment it would bring to your pack is absolutely unforgivable. Death is better than capture.”_

_“I will never be caught,” he promises.  “Thank you, Alpha.”_

He pulls back from the memory, moving to the door, conjuring the fleeting  feeling of dragging her unconscious body through the door, that’s been haunting his dreams lately.  He  retraces the steps up the stairs, almost hearing the dull thud of her feet hitting each step on the way up. 

_“What’s this?” the Alpha demands as the lays the unconscious girl on the floor before his Alpha’s feet._

_He falls to his knees, quaking at the fury in the Alpha’s reaction, knowing he’s failed horribly._

_“My—my—replac—”_

_“Your replacement?” the Alpha thunders, and he cowers lower as he waits for the blows.  “All humans are revoltingly pathetic, but you bring me this? Of all the possibilities available to you, you present this to your Alpha?”_

_The first swipe of the Alpha’s claws rake up his side._

_“Forgive me, Alpha; I—”_

_“Forgive?!” the Alpha demands as he continues to rain down kicks and smacks on his worthless beta.  “ I show you the mercy of allowing you to hunt.  You bring me the first weakling human you find—a skinny, strung-out, whore of a girl you no doubt stumbled across in a back alley—because you’re too lazy to—”_

_“No, Alpha, no, please. I can find another. I can do better. I didn’t mean to displease you, Alpha. Please.”_

_“Tell me why you would choose this human to bring to me,” the Alpha orders._

_“I—I—”_

_“You were weak,” the Alpha answers for him.  “You were frightened hunting on your own.  You chose the first human you crossed paths with who seemed a scrawny, easy target.  You chose blindly in a panic to find a replacement.”_

_“Yes, Alpha,” he admits miserably._

_“You were weak,” the Alpha repeats._

_“Yes, Alpha.”_

_“Weakness must be punished.”_

_He throws himself at the Alpha’s feet again, terror surging in his chest._

_“Please, Alpha, please. Let me try again I can—”_

_“You’ve been given your chance,” the Alpha replies coldly, “and you disappointed me deeply.”_

_“I’m sorry, Alpha. Please. Forgive me. Let me—”_

_The rest of the sentence is cut off as the Alpha pulls him from the floor with a vice-like hold around his throat.  His feet dangle as the Alpha lifts him higher, keeping the hold just shy of complete asphyxiation, allowing the sharp, painful gasps of air that keep him conscious._

_“Stop begging,” the Alpha orders. “You know I despise that.”_

_He whimpers in reply._

_“You exist to serve your pack; you should know how to please all your Alphas, and your one task for the night was to please me. You should know what I want, but since you’re too idiotic to follow simple instructions, we’ll make do with what we have, and I will spell it out for you.  You should know I would want a good fight and a good chase; you should know to bring me a strong, cognizant human to play with. Since you’ve rendered her unconscious like the moronic wretch that you are, you’ll have to satisfy that role yourself._

_If and only if, you  manage to fulfill that demand to my satisfaction, you will be granted a second chance at mercy for tonight.  I want pain; I want blood; I want screams—not quibbling pleas for forgiveness like you’ve been plaguing me with—I want to hear shrieks of agony, and I’ll grant you the chance to extract them from her rather than have me pull them from you.  You understand?”_

_“Yes, Alpha,” he chokes out as the hold loosens ever so slightly.  “Thank you.”_

_“Good.  Now, run, beta,” Alpha commands, throwing him to the floor.  “Run for your Alpha.”_

_The minutes blur into an endless brew of panic and fear and pain and the desperate, desperate need to obey and please the Alpha.  He must succeed because eventually the Alpha stops, smiling down as he lies broken, bloody, and moves to rouse the unconscious human.  She cries out and jerks away in fear when her eyes snap open, but he restrains her easily, yanking her to her feet by her stringy blonde hair and shoving her back into the wall.  She manages just barely to keep her feet.  She stands terrified, eyes darting around the room for an escape though she’s entirely cornered._

_“On your feet, beta,” the Alpha commands, and he scurries to obey despite the harsh pain of unhealed wounds.  “You know what I expect.  Don’t disappoint me again,” he warns ominously._

_“I won’t, Alpha,” he swears, moving toward the girl._

_As he walks toward her, he runs quickly through the maneuvers this Alpha favors in punishments, wondering which he should use first, before finally deciding to sink his claws into her arm, shredding down the length of it and ripping a cry from her lungs that has his Alpha’s eyes glowing bright._

_“Good, beta, very good,” the Alpha says, and some of the terror that he’ll fail again ebbs with the praise.  “Keep going.”_

_“Yes, Alpha.”_

_It’s not long before he’s dismissed, the Alpha choosing to evoke the pain himself rather than merely watch his beta perform the torture.  Relief washes through him as he realizes this means he salvaged something from tonight; he wasn’t entirely useless. He  retreats to the room downstairs where the other betas are already gathered, having brought more pleasing replacements to their assigned alphas._

_He’ll do better next time. He learned. The Alpha was lenient and explained; he allowed his beta a second chance even after disappointment, but he won’t disappoint his pack again. He can be a good beta. He can do as he’s told.  He’ll get it right next time._

*********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles moves through the house like a sleepwalker in a trance, silent tears coursing his face as he goes.  He eventually comes to a rest in the small room just off the kitchen.  He hasn’t moved for a good five minutes when Derek finally takes a step in to try and break the daze. 

_Please don’t be relapsing again._

“Stiles?”

Stiles eyes snap to Derek’s face, focusing back to the present for just a moment before his face contorts in anguish and he dissolves into sobs, curling in on himself as he buries his head in his knees, hands over his head.

_Fuck. He wasn’t ready for this. How could Morrell let him think he was ready to face shit like this? What the hell was she thinking?_

He quells the anger momentarily for Stiles’ sake.  Isaac’s trying to calm Stiles, but he pulls away from the touch as the heaving sobs worsen.  The three of them try frantically to soothe him, which is difficult given they’re not sure exactly what kinds of memories he recovered.  They swear it’s okay, assure him he’s safe now, promise none of it was his fault, but nothing they say seems to lessen whatever mental torment accompanied the reclaimed moments. 

After what seems an eternity, he finally cries himself out and wonders pitifully, “Can we please just go home?”

Scott drives, and Derek and Isaac both sit in the back with Stiles between them.  He’s no longer shying from their touch.  Instead he’s got a death grip on both their arms.

“Whatever happened,” Derek says quietly, remembering the fear from the full moon, “Whatever you remembered.  It doesn’t matter.  We’re still not going anywhere. We’re still not leaving.  Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

Stiles meets his eyes, the deep guilt—a level of remorse Derek knows too well—shining there makes Derek want to sob himself.   Stiles nods though, and he forces a small smile before resting his head on Derek’s shoulder as they ride on.

           

**********************************************************************************************************************************

 

He’d wanted so fervently for the flashes of memories to just be nightmarish images implanted to teach him how to handle humans.  He knew better than to delude himself with that kind of hope, but it doesn’t stop the crushing disappointment in realizing without a doubt the sort of unforgivable things he did under the Alphas’ orders.  This was just the beginning; there are more places to go, more full moons to relive, and he’s got a sickening feeling it’s only going to get worse.   More than ever he wonders if he should stop, let Derek block out the four months and make up some plausible story as to why he has no memory.

_And just erase people like her? Erase the pain I inflicted on them to ease my own guilt? I don’t deserve that.  She was real—I  don’t even know her name, but she existed.  She died at the hands of the Alphas because I brought her back to them.  She doesn’t deserve to be erased; she should be mourned in one form or another._

He knows he can’t make it right, even if he keeps the memory; she’s dead and gone and he can’t change that. Still, he can’t bring himself to do her the disservice of erasing what he did completely.  No matter how scared he was, no matter how well-trained and reprogrammed, there is no excuse for inflicting that kind of pain on another person.  She’ll haunt him the rest of his life, and she should.  She’ll be there in the back of his mind ever full moon, a reminder of how much pain he inflicted and how he can never, _ever_ hurt anyone like that ever again. 

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles spends the rest of the day completely distracted, trapped in his own thoughts despite their attempts to distract him, flinching at all movement and noise.  It absolutely breaks Isaac’s heart to see him like this.  He wants more than anything to know what Stiles saw. He wants to understand what happened so he can figure out how to convince Stiles whatever he needs convincing to let go of it.  Was it more memories of torture? Memories of being a weapon?

Derek’s words replay in his mind.  _And Stiles wouldn’t believe us either.  Whatever he did as their ‘weapon,’  he’s always going to think it was his fault; he’s always going to blame himself to one degree or another.  Even if we never said it out loud, us knowing anything about what he did would just be a constant reminder. It’d make it worse, not better._

So in the end, Isaac doesn’t ask or say much of anything, just hovers near Stiles like Derek and Scott, hoping they make it through the day without a full reversion.

“I’m gonna need the medicine tonight,” Stiles says quietly, as the clock on the wall chimes ten.

“Okay,” Isaac replies.  “You want it now or—”

“Yeah.”

“Meet your guys upstairs then,” Isaac says, getting to his feet and heading off.

“Thanks.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“What’re you doing?” Stiles wonders when Scott immerges from the guest room with the twin mattress and starts hauling it up the stairs behind Stiles and Derek.

“Staying,” Scott replies simply.  “You said it helps, right? Having the whole pack around you?”

 “Yeah, but—”

“Good, ‘cause Jackson’s gonna be here any minute,” Scott replies, plopping the mattress on the floor of Stiles’ bedroom.  “And I’m calling dibbs on the mattress while I still can.”

" _Jackson?_ ”

“He asked how you were; I said you had a rough day; he offered to come too. More the merrier, right?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Come on, dude. It’s not that big a deal. Pack bonding’s good for us anyway.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. 

 _Let them do what they can now. They want to help. You need their help,_ Morrell’s voice repeats in his head.

“Thanks,” he says, quieting the desire to assure them they don’t have to go to this trouble. 

Jackson’s there by the time Stiles is in pajamas and Isaac’s brought the sedative. He immediately scuffles with Scott for rights to the mattress on the floor before they begrudgingly call it a tie and end up back to back in the small space. 

“Dude, the way Scott flails in his sleep you’re going to end up on the floor anyway, Jackson.”

“We’ll see about that,” he replies grumpily, elbowing Scott.

Scott shoves back, nearly sending Jackson to the floor again. 

“Knock it off,” Derek grumbles, but he’s half smiling. 

Isaac’s standing in the doorway, syringe in his hand, and his eyes are on Stiles; Stiles realizes he’s been smiling with amusement at the brotherly fight, momentarily distracted from the hellish memories playing on a loop in his head.  It’s attention on the fact that for a moment, just a moment, the simple act of being with and around the pack was enough to overshadow everything else.  He considers for a moment telling Isaac he doesn’t want the sedative, but, in the next moment, the fear that he’d lose this one thing that outweighs the pain if they ever found out what causes his anguish is so strong and suffocating that he can barely breathe.  Isaac’s face falls along with Stiles’.

“Guess you’re ready?” he supposes, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promises. “All of us. We’re not leaving.”

“And Derek’s making pancakes for breakfast,” Jackson adds.

“What?” Derek asks, surprised.

“Dude, I’m sharing a mattress on the floor with McCall,” Jackson replies. “You’re making fucking pancakes for breakfast.”

“Fine then,” Derek agrees with a shrug and a smile to Stiles.

“Only if you want to,” Stiles replies, closing his eyes against the pinch of the needle as Isaac injects the serum.

“Blueberry or chocolate chip?” Derek wonders in reply. 

“Chocolate chip,” Stiles and Jackson reply together.

“Okay, chocolate chip it is,” Derek agrees as Stiles lays back on the bed.

“Thanksss,” Stiles slurs as the tranquility courses through him and draws him into the darkness.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Stiles has been sitting silently on the back porch all morning, trying in vain to will away the images seared back into his memories.  Derek’s trying to give him space, and he appreciates it; eventually, though, it seems Derek can’t take any more of pretending to busy himself with other things.   He comes out and sits next to Stiles, silently for a long time, though there’s something clearly on his mind.

“Please let me take it,” he says finally.

“Huh?” Stiles replies, startled at just how wrecked Derek’s voice sounds.

“The memory,” Derek expounds. “Whatever you got back at the house yesterday. Let me block it.”

“You promised you’d never fuck with my memories,” Stiles says, recoiling from Derek a little though he doesn’t mean to.

“I know,” Derek promises, “and I’ll never do it unless you say it’s okay. I just—Stiles, you don’t deserve to feel like this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. It _wasn’t. your. fault_.”” Derek insists.  “You couldn’t stop it.  You weren’t yourself.  You were a puppet.” 

“Say it as many times as you want,” Stiles replies, “I’m still gonna feel like shit.”

There’s heartbreak in Derek’s eyes at the answer.

_You know what this insane kind of guilt feels like, don’t you?  I wish I could take yours away as bad as you want to block mine._

"Please, Stiles.”

“Could you block memories for yourself?” Stiles asks. 

“I dunno. Maybe?”

“Would you ever block Kate? Even though it hurts like hell and we swear it wasn’t your fault?”

“No,” he admits.

_Goddamn we are so fucked up, Sourwolf._

“I know it’s not exactly the same, but I can’t just block it out.”

Derek nods resignation though the anguish in his face remains.  Stiles reaches to grab his hand and squeezes tight as he leans against Derek’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to see the discontent in Derek’s face anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “I know I’m—”

“Don’t be sorry.  It’s your choice to make. I just fucking hate seeing you blaming yourself.  You’ve been through enough without adding the guilt for shit that was out of your control.”

_It wasn’t out of my control, not really. I could have fought it.  There should have been a shred of human decency left, but I didn’t even flinch._

********************************************************************

 

_Godammit, Stiles, let me take the fucking memory back. You don’t deserve to relive it—whatever it was. You shouldn’t think it was your fault. You had enough to deal with just moving past the abuse.  This is—I don’t know what this is—but whatever the fuck it is, it’s way too much, and you’re always so damn close to the edge. Just let me take this one thing. Stop looking for more bad memories.  Let me make that fucking haunted look that’s settling in your eyes go away because I can’t fucking handle it._

He’ll never alter Stiles’ memories without consent, but he wants to. He wants so badly for that look of guilt to go away because Derek knows too well how difficult it makes it just to get through the day—it’s the exact damn thing Derek was trying to save Stiles from with Peter—and Stiles is the last person who should have to feel this way.

Derek’s phone rings, breaking the silence that’s fallen.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Hale, this is Mark Jacobson, I was calling to let you know I’ve got some plans for the house.”

Mark Jacobson is fifty-three years old and the most respected general contractor in Beacon Hills, but money brings respect—or at least the illusion of it—and the number of zeros on the check Derek had the bank send over after the first phone call is apparently more than enough to bump Derek to the top of the ‘customers to please’ category.

“Already? You said it would be Monday.”

“Well, yes, it would be Monday before anything new could be put together, but based on your requests, the architect sent over some standard options you might be interested in.  He’ll be happy to customize a layout for you if you’d care to modify any of the designs or start from scratch completely.  I just thought with your preference for a quick build, you might want to take a look and see if something we already have worked out strikes your interest?”

“I’ll be by to pick them up later,” Derek replies. “Thanks.”

Stiles eyes are on him as he slides his phone back in his pocket.

“Well, _Mr. Hale_ ,” Stiles says.  “You’ve apparently made an impression.”

“Whatever,” Derek replies dismissively. “He just wants a paycheck.”

“Are you going to go get the plans?”

“It can wait.”

_I’m not leaving you here by yourself. I’m not calling Isaac home from school.  I’m definitely not going to make you—_

“I could come with you maybe,” Stiles says, “I mean wait in the car while you run in or whatever, but I could come. Get out of the house.  Get out of my head for a minute.”

It’s mostly a front for Derek.  Stiles eyes are still too troubled for him to really give a fuck whether he gets out of the house or not right now, but it really might do him good, and Derek _does_ really fucking want to start looking at layouts.  He glances down at the time on his phone.

“If we leave now, we can grab the plans and food and tell the others to come once school’s out.”

The proposal gets a smile out of Stiles, and some of the worry in Derek ebbs.

“Let’s do it,” Stiles says, getting to his feet.  “I’m going to officially vote that we get pizza—extra cheese?”

“Fine by me.”

 

************************************************************************

 

“Here’s the first one,” Derek says. “There’s three to look pick from or we can tell them we want something completely original.”

“Holy shit, Derek,” Jackson says.  “You’re almost as loaded as me.”

“You mean almost as loaded as your _parents_?” Isaac quips back, unable to stop himself.

“Shut up,” Jackson mutters. 

“Are we really getting a place this big?” Scott wonders.

“No, I thought we’d all just share a ten-person tent,” Derek retorts.

“This’s awesome,” Scott replies, good mood unaffected by Derek’s snark.  “So we all get our own rooms and everything?”

“I’m not refereeing the fights that would break out if any of you tried to share,” Derek replies, but the small smile that brightens his face gives away just how glad he is to be putting this plan into action, and it has Isaac grinning along with him. 

 _Damn it’s good to see you just be happy for a minute_.

“The sooner we settle on something, the sooner they can get started,” Derek continues.

“I like this one,” Scott says.  “The little tower thing’s cool.”

“It’s not a tower, dumbass. It’s a cupola,” Jackson corrects.

“Whatever,” Scott replies.  “It looks cool.”

“Well, there’s this option too,” Stiles says, pulling the second blueprint out.  “It’s got like legit towers and shit. Check it out.”

“Who’s decorating interior?” Lydia wonders.

“First we need a house,” Derek replies with a roll of his eyes, “ _Then_ you can worry about how we decorate it.”

“Fine,” she replies.  “Let’s see the third option.”

They spend the rest of the evening discussing—arguing—the various pros and cons of each option.  The practicality of traditional simple construction versus the extravagance of spiral staircases and rotunda entryways.  In the end they settle on something that’s a hybrid of the three houses, already calling dibbs on rooms and arguing about paint colors and there’s so much contentment and excitement and sense of _family_ thrumming through the room that Isaac could absolutely burst with happiness.

_It’s really happening. This is really happening.  We’re a pack, a family, and we’re going to do this.  For better or worse, we’re committing to this._

Derek’s standing next to him, also radiating more delight than Isaac’s seen in a very long time.  He grabs Derek’s hand, getting Derek’s attention and his eyes are absolutely shining when he turns to look at Isaac and drags him in closer for a quick kiss before throwing an arm over his shoulders. They beam across the table at Stiles who’s deep in discussion with Scott over whether or not they could manage secret passages in some of the walls without getting carried away; he’s at ease too, some of the haunted look that’s plagued him since the trip to Graham yesterday receding if just for the moment.

 _One day this will be the norm,_ Isaac hopes fervently.  _One day it won’t be so rare to get us all relaxed and happy like this.  We’re going to find a way to keep moments like this._

 

********************************************************************

 

“So you got the house planned out, huh?” Dad asks, flipping the burgers on the grill and closing the lid. 

He and Stiles are the only ones out on the back porch; the others are inside watching television—except Lydia’s who’s already begun planning out color palates and furniture feng shui at the kitchen table.  There’ll be no stopping her now, but maybe it’s good.  Maybe she’ll officially join the pack soon.

“Yeah, first step at least,” Stiles replies. 

“You—ah—you get the room you wanted?” Dad wonders, and the slight huskiness in his voice betrays the casual tone he’s trying to keep.

“Dad, you know that’s—that’s not—I mean I’m gonna have a room there, but I’m not moving out.”

I _don’t know how it’s all going to work out exactly, but I’m not going to just cut and run on you here.  You gotta know that._

“You’re nearly eighteen, and especially if it’s better for you—”

“Dad, stop,” Stiles insists, his father’s heartbroken _I think we both know who you’d pick_ confession replaying again in Stiles’ mind.  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He smiles as wide and genuinely as possible, slapping his Dad playfully on the back.  Dad returns the smile hesitantly.

“I’ll be okay enough by then,” Stiles assures. _Probably. Hopefully. Please, God?_ “It’s months away. I’ve got to learn to sleep on my own again sometime, right? And they’ll all still be over here sometimes. It’ll still be secondary pack house.”  He pauses a moment before adding, “And this is always home, Dad; no matter when I move out or where I move to, this is still home, you know that, right?”

His Dad nods, “I’m still not quite sure when the hell you grew up on me.  I swear I was dropping you off at preschool yesterday. Now you’re practically eighteen and—”

“Yeah, you really are getting old,” Stiles teases, needing to keep things light, “but seriously, you are _so_ stuck with me.  I’m not going anywhere.” In an efforts to move things to less loaded subject matter, Stiles nods toward the grill and adds, “Unless you let the burgers burn because that’s just unforgivable.”

“Shut up,” his Dad mutters. “I’ve been grilling longer than you’ve been alive. I think I can handle it.”

“The super awesome werewolf nose says differently,” Stiles counters, though the burgers smell awesome, not burnt in the least.  “Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

His Dad rolls his eyes as he gives in and goes to check on the grill.

           

********************************************************************

 

Two days later, they’re standing next to Derek as the remains of the old house are slowly condensed into a pile of rubble and hauled away.  It wasn’t exactly a surprise; the county condemned it months ago, and it’s a step that had to happen to get all the permits for the new house squared away.  Anything worth saving—not that there was much Derek hadn’t already taken out of the ruin—is in a few boxes in the trunk of the Camero.  Isaac tries to convince Derek to leave when the bulldozer starts up, but he just shakes his head, sets his jaw, and stares in silent agony as the first portion of the remaining walls comes crashing down in a cloud of dust, the scent of charred wood filling the air.  Isaac doubts the humans can even tell, but it’s more than enough for the wolves to pick up on, more than enough to put a grief in Derek’s eyes that Isaac’s can’t bear to look at. 

Isaac takes one of Derek’s hands, and Stiles has the other.  Isaac watches helplessly as the tension in Derek amplifies with every blow to the house, fighting the urge to hold Derek, knowing Derek hates showing weakness in front of the pack, much less these perfect strangers. So all Isaac can do is clasp his hand tighter and tighter as the Hale house is reduced to splinters and ash.

 

*********************************************************************

 

_I can’t take this._

Derek tosses his keys to Isaac as he starts to run. The moment he’s out of sight, he shifts to full Alpha form; unstoppable howls of heartache escape him, but the searing grief ebbs ever so slightly as all his emotions are brought into the more animalistic range of this form.  He streaks through the woods, letting his instincts lead for a while.  He doesn’t realize where he’s headed until he comes to a stop at the edge of the cemetery. 

The Hale family plot occupies the northeast corner.  He trots over to the stones, a low whine escaping him; this form may dull emotions, but it doesn’t completely erase them. 

_I’m sorry.  I let all of you down.  But I swear it won’t happen again. I’ll never risk my pack like that again. I’ll keep them safe. I’ll do better this time.  I will._

_God, I’m so  fucking sorry._

 

*****************************************************************

 

Stiles has just about decided Derek’s not coming home tonight when they hear the scratching at the back door.  He rushes down to let Derek in with Isaac hot on his heels.  Derek shifts the moment he’s back in the house, looking no less forlorn than he did earlier, and Stiles almost can’t stand to look at him.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, knowing the answer.

“Fine,” Derek replies curtly.  “Just tired.  I’m gonna shower.”

“Sure.”

Derek doesn’t speak the rest of the night, just goes through the motions of showering and getting ready for bed, silencing any attempt at conversation with an icy glare.  Stiles wonders if Derek will take the guest room tonight, but he climbs in bed with Isaac and Stiles, throwing his arm across them like usual and holding on to them tighter than ever, giving away just how vulnerable he’s really feeling.  Stiles _aches_ for a way to make this better, for words or actions that will help, but he knows the only thing they can do is be here.

_God, we are all so messed up. It’s always something.  Does it ever just fucking stop?_

 

*******************************************************************

 

_“Oh my God, Derek, could you move any slower?” Laura whines impatiently._

_"You’re the one who got us landed in detention again,” he reminds.  “Don’t get pissed at me.”_

_"Yeah, well, if you would’ve just run faster Harris wouldn’t have seen your face and—”_

_"Sure. Next time I’ll just hit werewolf speeds and get us grounded for eternity for showing off at school instead of one day of detention.”_

_“Week of detention,” she corrects._

_“It was your stupid plan anyway.  If you weren’t so fucking determined to—”_

_“Harris deserved it! He’s a total asshole!”_

_“I’m not arguing the point; I’m just saying the whole thing was your goddamn idea so why are you pissed at—”He stops mid-sentence as her eyes suddenly flare Alpha-red.  “Laura? Laura, what the hell just happ—”_

_“Get in the car!” she thunders, panic rising on her face as the words come out in the Alpha tone._

_“Laura, why are you—You’d only be Alpha if—”_

_“I don’t fucking know, Derek,” she retorts as she starts the car and peals out of the lot.  “That can’t be it though. They can’t be dead. We fucking saw them this morning. They were fine.  They’re not dead. They can’t be. It’s something else; something weird. Gramps will know what it is—or Mom.  They’ll’ve heard of something like this before.”_

_“It’s a fluke, right? Just a fluke.”_

_“Yeah probably.  Just—just a fluke.  Everything’s fine.”_

_He knows she can feel there’s something wrong just as much as he can.  He knows the dread must be building in her too.   Still, they deny the logical answer as they race toward home, refusing to believe the unthinkable could have happened._

_They see the smoke spiraling into the sky as soon as they hit county road 48._

_“Even if that’s our house,” Laura says. “They got out.  There were fucking werewolves there; no way a fire sneaks up on them.  They’re fine. It’s fine. It’s all gonna be okay, Derek. It’ll be fine.”_

_She’s clearly trying to calm herself just as much as Derek, but it’s not working on either of them. The acrid stench of smoldering timbers reaches them, and just seconds later there’s no questioning that—whether it’s their family or not—bodies are burning with the house.   Derek’s retching in the next instant, the sickening stench growing ever-stronger as they start down the drive.  The house is fully engulfed in flames, all the cars are home, and no one is outside._

_“NOOOO!!!!”_

********************************************************************

 

“Derek?! Derek, what’s wrong?!” Isaac demands, sitting up in bed as he the pained sounds coming from the other side of the bed wake him.

“Derek, wake up,” Stiles says urgently, rousing too and shaking Derek’s shoulder. “Derek, wake up! It’s okay; it’s just a bad dream.”

Derek’s eyes snap open as he bolts upright.

“It was just a nightmare,” Isaac says.  “You’re okay; you’re—”

 “Yeah, I’m fine,” Derek interrupts, though his voice cracks just a little as he swings his feet off the bed to stand, clearly trying to hide his face as he turns away.  “Sorry I woke you up.  Go back to sleep. I’m good.”

“It's okay if you're—”

“I said I’m good,” he repeats, defenses going up.  “I’m fucking fine.  Go back to sleep.”

Stiles looks helplessly at Isaac, but Isaac hasn’t got an answer either.  He’s learned how to help Stiles, but he’s not so sure what helps Derek.  However unhealthy it is, Derek usually just likes to pretend it’s all fine.

_So do we let him ignore it? or push it?_

“Derek,” Stiles says quietly, “talk to us.”

“I’m fine,” Derek insists.

“We can go put on a movie,” Isaac suggests, “or—”

 “I’m good,” Derek replies firmly, “Don’t worry about it.”  He finally turns back to face them, emotions carefully in check again.  “I just needed a minute.  Just a weird, bad dream. No big deal.”

_We all know it was something to do with your family or the fire or Kate. Why do you feel like you have to cover for that? You’re allowed to have nightmares.  You don’t have to be the big tough Alpha all the time._

He takes a step back toward the bed, and Stiles scoots over to occupy Derek’s usual spot.

“What’re you doing?”

  
“You’re sleeping in the middle,” Stiles informs him.

  “Stiles, I don’t fucking need to—”

  “I’m feeling insanely claustrophobic all of a sudden,” Stiles interrupts.  “I don’t want the middle tonight. Can’t handle it.”

 "You’re ridiculous.”

 Stiles shrugs.  “It is what it is.  You’re just going to have to take one for the team and spend the rest of the night as a Derek sandwich.”

 “Move over, Stiles.”

 “Nope.”

 “ _Stiles._ ”

 “ _Sourwolf.”_

“Shut up.”

 “Come to bed.”

 “Move _over.”_

“Stop being stubborn.”

 “ _I’m_ being stubborn?”

"You’re both being stubborn,” Isaac points out.  “Come on, Derek, just come back to bed.”

_Maybe Stiles is right; maybe it’ll help. At the least, we’ll feel like we’re doing some little something to help._

"Fine,” Derek huffs, vaulting over Stiles to the spot in the middle.

For all his determined aloofness,  he relaxes visibly as Isaac and Stiles move in on either side of him, tangling limbs over and around Derek in a not-so-well-disguised hug.  If he wants to pretend he doesn’t need them right now, Isaac’ll let him, but it doesn’t change the fact that Derek’s still shaking just a little from the panic of the nightmare and he’s having to concentrate way too hard on keeping his breath even.

_You and Stiles both dude, haunted by shit that wasn’t your fault.  What I wouldn’t give to get it through your thick skulls that you’re only human—only werewolf? what the fuck ever—and shit happens. Sometimes it’s really bad shit.  Some things you could’ve stopped; some you couldn’t.  Regardless, you have to stop blaming yourself sometime or it’s going to kill you._

_Maybe it’ll get better when we start building the new house. Please, let it get better when we start building the new house? Derek deserves to catch a fucking break._

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Stiles wakes before the others, taking a moment to admire the view.  Derek’s only a few inches away, sleeping soundly—thankfully.   It’s scarier than Stiles will ever admit to see Derek be any kind of vulnerable.  Not that Derek isn’t just as entitled to freak outs and bad dreams and shitty nights as anyone else, it’s just that Stiles forgets sometimes that Derek’s dealing with a shit ton of issues too, he just shoulders it pretty damn well—especially these days.It’s unsettling to see him lose the careful control.

Derek’s eyes flutter open and meet Stiles’, still clouded with sleep. Stiles smiles at just how incredibly fucking adorable Derek looks when he wakes—like a groggy toddler for all of five seconds before he’s fully cognizant.

“Morning,” Stiles says.  

From the other side of the bed, a groan escapes Isaac.  Stiles can’t actually see Isaac because Derek’s on his side, facing Stiles, but from the sound of it, he’s having a _much_ better dream than the ones Derek and Stiles have gotten lately.  Stiles barely contains a laugh.

“Morning,” Derek replies, apparently planning to pretend he didn’t hear the noise.

“Derek,” Isaac moans, still fully asleep, and now there’s _definitely_ no mistaking what he’s dreaming about now.

“You going to do something about that?” Stiles wonders, “Or am I going to have to climb over there and supplement that dream all by myself?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“I know; I’m incorrigible,” Stiles says. Isaac moans out Derek’s name again, and Stiles’ grin widens.  “And _you’re_ being summoned,” he adds, “and I mean it when I say if you don’t go take care of that I will.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It takes a minute for Isaac to recognize that he’s transitioned from a dream to reality.  He pulls back from the kiss and Derek grins smugly.

“So which is better?” Stiles wonders. “Dream Derek or the real deal?”

“Fuck,” Isaac mutters, and he can feel the blush rising in his cheeks.  “I was—I was talking in my sleep?”

“Don’t know if it really counts as ‘talking’,” Stiles replies unforgivingly. “But you were definitely—”

“I think I’m embarrassed enough without the full recap.”

“Don’t be,” Stiles replies with a lascivious grin, “No complaints here if this is how the morning starts. Derek?”

“No complaints,” he echoes as he returns for another kiss.

It’s not long before they’re a tangled mess of limbs, looking for as much contact and friction as they can get.  Isaac’s owning Derek’s mouth, relishing all the reign Derek gives him, when someone’s hand starts stroking his cock.  There’s something _unbelievably_ hot in the fact that he honestly has no idea which of them it is. He groans into Derek’s mouth, unable and unwilling to stop the sound. 

_Belt rule._

_Oh God, why the hell do we have that rule? We don’t need that rule. We’re good._

_So fucking good._

_Like reeeally fucking good._

_But no seriously. Goddamn fucking belt rule is still a thing._

“I think,” Stiles says breathlessly, his lips leaving Isaac’s shoulder just as Isaac pulls away from Derek to question the progression.  “I think we should really think about abolishing that whole below the belt rule thing.” 

“Stiles, you—”

“I’m good,” he swears, “ _so_ fucking good, I fucking swear.”

_Oh God._

Stiles with one hand around Isaac’s cock. Swearing he’s good. _Wanting_ for this.  When Isaac opens his mouth to protest, Stiles is there with a kiss, deep and slow, and goddammit there’s only a fucking infinitesimal amount of lucid thought left in Isaac right now. 

“Please?” Stiles says again, eyes honest and lust-filled.

“Oh my _God_ , Stiles,” Isaac replies.  “I—I—”

“Tell me _you_ don’t want it, and I’ll stop,” he swears, “but not because of me.”

“Of course I fucking want this, but—”Isaac looks past Stiles to Derek, seeing his own uncertainty mirrored there.  He summons absolutely _every_ ounce of self-control left in him to say, “but—not—not yet. I can’t—we can’t—not yet.”

Stiles mood falls appreciably.  “I’m really—”

“Soon,” Isaac promises, moving to kiss Stiles and silence the argument. 

“When we’re all thinking with the right brain,” Derek adds teasingly, planting a kiss on the back of Stiles’ neck.

The door slams open downstairs just as the sheriff’s voice calls through the house.  “Boys! I’m home!  Brought breakfast! Haul your asses outa bed!”

“Yeah, so, sooner we get our own house the better,” Stiles says irritably. 

“Hey, but free breakfast,” Isaac laughs. 

“I think I’d rather have uninterrupted orgasms.”

“You can stow the teenage hormones for three months,” Derek tells him.

“Three _months_?”

"Jesus, Stiles, we don’t have to be _monks_ til then,” Isaac replies.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mutters, untangling himself from the other two and going to search for his shirt. 

Isaac can’t help grinning at the petulant frown on Stiles’ face.  It’s good to hear Stiles so much like his pre-kidnapping self, but Isaac’s still not sure Stiles is as ready as he thinks he is to start taking this to the next level; Isaac’s not so sure _he’s_ ready either, not for the level of responsibility involved in watching Stiles—Derek too maybe a little?—for signs of problems even in the heat of the moment.  It’s a big step for everybody, and it could be one hell of a pitfall if they’re not careful.

_We’ve got enough on our hands for a while.  Derek’s right. Stow the hormones a while._

 

           

 

           

                       

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first and foremost down here, I want to say that this chapter is dedicated to kate-barton93, oatmealcoloured, rexbasileus, elenorasweet, messajo, pretendthisiswitty, and jamesthefluffydestroyer for being bright spots in what was the darkest week I've ever had the misfortune to experience, and, if they were my bright spots, the lovely Alize was my sunshine, so thanks to you all more than I can say.
> 
> Now some general author's notes:
> 
> much like Stiles' PTSD, the construction process in this story is plot-serving, not meant to necessarily be accurate...suspend your disbelief with me :)


	25. Chapter 25

“Five more minutes,” Stiles insists groggily.

Yesterday was a decent enough day, but the session with Morrell brought a lot of shit to the surface.  He didn’t exactly get an awesome night’s sleep. When the alarm goes off at five in the morning, he’s definitely not thrilled, no matter how awesome this surprise Isaac and Derek have planned might be.

“Nope,” Derek answers mercilessly pulling at his arm.  “Time to get up.  Move your ass.”

He does, if only because there’s a hint of giddiness in Derek’s voice that sounds a bit like a kid at Christmas.

“What the hell kind of surprise has to happen this fucking early in the morning?” Stiles wonders as he stumbles blearily to the dresser to pull out clothes.  “I prefer mid-afternoon surprises. What’s wrong with you people?”

“Shut up and get dressed; it’s gonna be awesome,” Isaac replies irritably, though there’s a serious undercurrent of excitement in him too.

_What do you two have planned?_

************************************************************

 

“Are we there yet?” Stiles whines as he has every thirty seconds since they left the house.

“You are the most impatient person on the planet,” Derek mutters.

“You’re one to talk.” 

“Fuck off.”

“Tell me where we’re going.”

“Nope,” Isaac insists. “ _That’s_ the surprise. We told you already.”

“We’re almost there,” Derek adds, “but so help me if you don’t stop complaining I won’t top ten miles an hour the rest of the way there.”

“Fine,” Stiles agrees resentfully, leaning back from where he’s been hovering over the console between Derek and Isaac and slumping in the backseat.

Derek glances back at him in the rearview mirror. Stiles is pouting like a put-out toddler, arms crossed and brow creased, and Derek can’t help but smirk.  He hopes fervently that this surprise is as good for Stiles as they all want it to be. Stiles doesn’t know it yet, but it’s really a pack effort and thought.  They all wanted to give him a pick-me-up after a rough week of ups and downs with the therapy and recovering memories and just the general difficulty of Stiles’ everyday life now.  He keeps lamenting how long it’s going to take for him to get back to any semblance of ‘normal’ and this was one way they’re hoping to give a semi-legitimate step in the right direction.

_Oh God, please don’t let this blow up in our faces._

“We’re not going to Caroline’s, are we?” Stiles wonders as they turn down the side-street.

“Maybe,” Isaac replies, though Stiles has guessed exactly right.

“I didn’t need to haul my ass out of bed to come with you for take-out,” he declares moodily.  “And I hate to break it to you, but it’s Saturday.  They don’t open for another two hours.”

“They do for us,” Derek replies with a grin as they pull into the parking lot.

The sheriff’s cruiser, Jackson’s porsche, and Scott’s bike are all waiting in the lot as well.  Derek looks back at Stiles’ shocked face as his mouth falls open.

“Just so we’re clear, you’re saying _just_ us? They’re opening just for us—and we’re—we’re— _I’m_ going _inside_ to sit down and eat and—holy shit.”

 “We can go be semi-normal for an hour,” Isaac finishes, “if you want to.”

“How did you guys—”

“You said you wanted to feel normal; the pack wanted to give you something normal.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles mutters again, but the smile on his face is still hesitant.  “How many people are in there?”

“Just Lucy and Darrel,” Derek replies, naming the couple who own the diner they named after their daughter.  “Two people and us.  Pseudo-typical morning. You can do this.”

“What if I—”

“The whole pack’s here; we’ve got your back,” Derek reminds him.

“They keep asking how you’re doing when your dad comes in,” Isaac says, “so when we came up with the idea, they were happy to help.”

“And if I shift in front of them or hurt them or—”

 “We’ll stop you. We won’t let you hurt anyone. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But—”

“You can do this,” Derek promises.

_We really think you can.  You’ve been doing so damn good, Stiles. You deserve an hour of forgetting the shitstorm you’re surrounded by._

“If you don’t think you’re ready for this, we can go home,” Isaac says, “we’re not going to make you, but, if you think you want to try this, Derek’s right; we’ve all got your back.”

Stiles hesitates a moment or two more, looking longingly at the diner.

“Your call,” Derek says.  “In or out?”

 

 

*********************************************************************

 

The others are a sitting at the table already when they walk in. They grin in greeting and beckon them over. Derek and Isaac walk on either side of Stiles, each with a firm grip on his hand. 

_I can do this.  I can do this. It’ll be fine, and even if it’s not they’ll make sure I don’t hurt anyone.  Never going to hurt anyone again.  This is going to be okay._

He takes his seat with the others, still absorbing the moment as his nerves slowly abate; he draws in steady breaths, letting the sense of pack overshadow the vulnerability of being out of pack territory. It’s not too much of a stretch, even if his wolf instincts insist this place can’t be counted as safe, his human consciousness knows this place like the back of his hand.  It’s familiar, full of good memories, and really the perfect place to have his first trip out.

“Doing okay?” Dad wonders from across the table. 

“Yeah, just—weird, but I got it. I’m good.”

"Lucy’s gonna come take orders, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Hey, Luce?” Dad calls.

She comes from the kitchen with a pot of coffee in one hand, and mug of what’s surely chocolate milk in the other.  There’s a broad smile on her face, just like always.

“Hey, stranger,” she greets as she walks slowly toward the table.

It’s not her usual rush and bustle; she’s being a bit careful and watching too closely for Stiles’ reaction.  He wonders briefly what they told her about what happened while he was gone to give her guidance on how to act. 

“Hey, Luce,” Stiles replies.  “Thanks for—uh—helping out with this and everything.”

“We both know those whipped cream waffles just don’t taste the same to-go,” she confides with a smile.  “Missed seeing you fight for your right to coffee with your Dad every Sunday.”

“Guess I’m still losing that battle?” he asks, nodding to the chocolate milk.

“I think the sugar rush should be energy enough,” she answers.

“Fair,” Stiles concedes.

 It’s an argument they’ve been waging since Stiles was about five years old.  He’d demand to get to drink coffee like his Dad, but his parents were far too in touch with their sanity to allow Stiles to have it.  Caroline started bringing Stiles’ chocolate milk out in coffee mugs as a sort of compromise.  These days the battle isn’t really an issue—Stiles doesn’t like coffee much anyway, and he can get it himself whenever he wants—but Caroline still keeps a firm “not in my diner” rule in homage to days past and her continuing friendship with “her Stilinski boys”. 

Stiles takes the offered drink and sips, smiling around the edge of the mug at fond memories.  He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, and he hopes his happiness is showing in full because he can practically feel the contentment singing through his veins, easily outweighing the unease of being in the outside world again. 

“Okay, folks,” Lucy says to the table at large.  “What can I get started for everyone?”

 

*********************************************************************

 

Stiles is practically glowing with happiness right now.  He’s shoveling huge bites of waffle into his mouth, talking with his food half-chewed because he’s too busy arguing with Scott about why Batman trumps Spiderman any day of the week.  Isaac’s halfway keeping up a conversation with the sheriff about the most recent Angels’ sweep, but neither of them really gives a shit about the team in a moment when they can be basking in Stiles’ delight. It’s so fantastic to see him so carefree that Isaac’s having trouble functioning like this is a normal, mundane day and not a _huge_ victory for Stiles and the pack as a whole.

Lucy’s absolutely wonderful, and Isaac knows they’d be hard put to find a better place for Stiles’ first interaction with the outside world.  It hadn’t been hard to give her and Darrel enough information to know to be careful with Stiles.  It’s the same story Isaac supposes the sheriff gave when he closed the missing persons report: Stiles was kidnapped, traumatized in every way imaginable, and somehow by the grace of God found his way home.  Whenever Stiles isn’t looking, Isaac can see Lucy watching him worriedly; she can surely tell he’s not the same boy he was before, but she doesn’t say anything about it, just continues on, acting like her usual self.

Derek’s barely bothering to pretend he’s doing anything but watch Stiles enjoy himself.  Lydia’s going on about the color scheme of the kitchen in the new house, and he’s nodding along—not that he’d care much even if he weren’t distracted.  Isaac’s so glad to see both of them relaxed again after a rough week he’s wondering if they can’t revisit that belt rule on the way home.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s ten hours, forty-six minutes, and approximately nineteen seconds from the time the belt rule is abolished until they have the house to themselves again—not that Stiles is counting or anything.

“You promised,” Isaac reminds breathlessly as they stumble into the bedroom.  “Both of you swore you’d say something if—”

“We’re fine,” Stiles insists, as Derek hums agreement without letting his lips leave the back of Stiles’ neck.  “Bed,” he adds, nudging Isaac forward from where he’s stopped.

_Please, Isaac just go with this before something triggers. I know you’re worried, but you and Derek are so, so fucking different than anything I had with them.  Today was fantastic. This is only going to add to it.  Good memories to block out the bad.  Come on. Please._

He knows it’s not as simple to Isaac and Derek as it seems in Stiles’ head.  That became apparent the moment he used the “you eat the food I make because they taught me to cook; how is letting me get you off any different?” argument.  Maybe it’s not quite that cut and dry, but Stiles is trying damn hard to believe it is. 

They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, shedding clothes as they seek as much friction and heat and contact as they can get, and soon enough they’re all down to boxers.  Isaac’s splayed out so perfectly on his back as Derek kisses him that Stiles abandons the design of hickies he’s been leaving on Derek in favor of being the first to breach the belt line.  He strokes Isaac through the cotton of his boxers, smiling as he groans into Derek’s mouth at the touch.  Stiles pauses for one brief moment before sliding Isaac’s boxers down and taking just the tip of Isaac's cock into his mouth and sucking lightly. 

“Fuck, Stiles,” Isaac keens, breaking away from Derek for just a moment.

“Problem?” Stiles teases, pulling back with a smirk, and Isaac’s hips rise from the bed just slightly, seeking contact again.

“Hell no!” Isaac replies eagerly, “I mean—” he continues, faltering for a minute and trying so valiantly to stay noble even in the moment “I mean as long as you—”

“Say my name when you come,” Stiles instructs him with a boasting grin, moving back to tease Isaac with kisses before he takes him in deep; Isaac lets out a moan that is positively wanton, and Stiles uses one arm to keep him from bucking up. Stiles is so concentrated on the noises he’s pulling from Isaac, relishing each one, that it takes him longer than it should to realize Derek’s echoing them.  When he looks up to see that Isaac has Derek in hand, Stiles lets out of groan of his own because _fuck_ that’s maybe the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and it’s _his_ to see; for the foreseeable future this is something he gets to want, to see, to hear, to touch, to _have_.

_Oh, fuck yes, this is awesome._

Isaac’s getting close, and, from the sound of it, Derek won’t be far behind.  Stiles slips a hand around his own erection as they build toward the edge together. 

“Stiles, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

Stiles doesn’t make any effort to move, his eyes lock with Isaac’s, and when Isaac comes just moments later, he cries Stiles’ name like it’s precious and perfect and the only word in the world worth knowing.  The coveted sound brings Stiles even nearer release, much less the added moaning curses of Derek’s orgasm just moments later.  Stiles is _almost_ there when Isaac’s hand is suddenly on him, taking over as Derek claims his mouth.

“Think we’d make you take care of yourself?” Isaac wonders breathlessly, pupils still blown wide.

Derek pulls his lips from Stiles’ and his breath tickles at Stiles’ ear as he urges, “Come on, Stiles. Come for us.”

_Us. Derek and Isaac. Both good. Both here. Both mine.  Both._

“ _Fuck_ , yes!”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek honest-to-god didn’t know it was even possible to be this happy and not burst.  The three of them lie together, sated and content, unwilling to move apart yet though they’ll have to get cleaned up eventually.  For now they’re going to ride this high as long as possible, and Derek would stay here with them forever if that were really an option.  Right now, in this moment, it’s easy to push most of his worries away, focusing instead on every way this day has been the best—on several levels—that any of them have had in a long, long time.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************

 

Though they’re already cleaned up and changing the sheets to get ready for bed, Isaac _seriously_ debates suggesting to Stiles that they join Derek in the shower to go for round two because round one was insanely fucking awesome.  In the end, he decides not to push their luck, not tonight.  Today’s been about as flawless as anyone could ask for, and he doesn’t want to risk that.

T _here’ll be other nights_ , he reminds himself. 

He’s lying next to Stiles, drifting off to sleep when Derek comes in and joins them in bed. Stiles is asleep already, but Derek leans over him to give Isaac a lingering kiss before settling back to his side.  Stiles stirs at the movement as Derek pulls the covers up over the three of them.

“Fucking love you guys,” he murmurs, still half asleep.

Isaac’s eyes meet Derek’s, both of them a bit shocked at the words and the ease with which they escape Stiles. It’s something in between Stiles’ common, casual declarations of “and I love you for it” and the real deal.

“You too, dude,” Isaac replies uncertainly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

It’s unlikely Stiles will even remember saying it, and Derek’s not one to talk about anything he doesn’t have to, so it’ll probably get passed over for now.  Maybe it should; maybe they’re not ready to start saying shit like that even though they’ve all said time and time again they’re in this for the long haul.  Still, whether they fully admit it or not, the general sentiment is there, and clearly tonight moved the three of the forward, not back.  Isaac falls asleep still reveling in the deep satisfaction of that success.

 

*************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I heard you were able to go out a few days ago,” Ms. Morrell comments as they start the session.  “How was that?”

“Pretty awesome,” Stiles replies with a smile that wanes when he adds, “but I’m not sure I could do it somewhere else with other people around.  I don’t know if I can keep the instincts in check.”

“Instincts or conditioning?” she wonders though she must already have an idea.

“I dunno,” he admits. “I mean I guess maybe more conditioning? Their conditioning played so much to the instincts though sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s what, ya know?”

“What causes you stress when you’re out?”

“Just the fact that I’m leaving pack territory, being around things not pack. It just—puts me on edge kinda—I dunno.”

The mantra comes unbidden to his mind: _Nothing matters but the pack. Never trust anything outside the pack. Never interact with anything outside the pack._

“I guess—I guess—yeah it is conditioning more than instinct,” Stiles decides.  “The alphas were always telling us to focus on the pack—that our place in the pack was the only reason for existing; that it was the only place we belonged; that there was no point to anything outside the pack—I know now that it was just to keep us from taking any leeway, and to keep me away from my friends while they looked for me.  I just still have the idea in my head I guess, and like I said it plays into the wolf side of me.”

“But  even if the conditioning is still there, you don’t prefer pack territory for the same reasons anymore, do you?” she wonders.

“No, now it’s—now it’s still a little about pack being the place I belong I guess, but also because it registers as being safe—well, saf _er_ anyway.”

“Safe from what?”

“You really have to ask that question?”

“I think _you_ need to admit the _answer_.”

“I’m not in denial here,” he says resentfully. “I know damn well my biggest fear is them coming back.  It never leaves my mind that there’s still two of them out there somewhere—at least a couple betas too if they didn’t cut their losses when they skipped town—and there’s nothing to keep them from showing up and starting round two if they wanted. As much as I want to think they wouldn’t, there’s no way to be sure really, unless we went out looking for a fight to try and finish them off—but that’s not an option, at least not yet—so for all I know they could waltz back into town tomorrow.”

“And you’re afraid of being taken again.”

It’s a statement, not a questions, and he nods confirmation, trying not to shudder visibly at the thought.

  “I can’t come back from that shit twice; I know I can’t—hell I’m still not even sure I can entirely come back from it _once—_ I’d rather be dead than back with them.”

“Maybe you have accepted this fear and it’s presence for _yourself_ ,” she concedes, “but have you told anyone _else_? Do your packmates  know how present that fear is?”

“I’m sure they’ve thought of it too,” Stiles says. “I mean—we all must’ve right? They know as well as I do that two of the alphas survived.  There’s no reason for me to get all serious and make them feel like they’re not doing enough to keep me safe. We don’t need to talk about it to know it’s still a threat lurking out there.”

“They want to help you, Stiles.”

“I _know_ ,” he replies, irritation surfacing at the phrase she’s uttered about a _billion_ fucking times over the course of the past two weeks.  “But there’s only so much they can do,” he reminds her, “it’s the same thing as all the abandonment shit we talked about.  They’re doing enough; they’re being insanely supportive. At some point it just comes back to me having to take care of my own shit. They can only carry me so far, and  I don’t need to be more of a burden than I already am.”

“They don’t see you as a burden.”

“I know that, too.”

“And yet you continue to refer to yourself as—”

"They had to convince Luce and Darrel to open the place at five in the morning just so I could do something as fucking simple as go out to breakfast.  Derek and Isaac moved into my house while my Dad’s got a go-bag now because he could get exiled from the house at a moment’s notice when I freak.  Deaton’s faking case files to get my sedatives.  Scott, Lydia, everyone—even fucking _Jackson Whittlemore_ —spends shit tons of time worrying about helping me instead of just living their lives.  They’re _always_ going miles out of their way just so I can take the tiniest steps forward.  I’m a burden whether they see me that way or not!” he declares angrily because this is the fact that taints every single good thing they do for him.

_If you’re not being useful, you’re being a burden. Burdens are cut loose from the pack._

_I’m never useful. I’m always a burden._

_No, no. I’m useful. I do some things. I cook. I—_

_Learn to cook. Learn to clean. Learn to blow. Learn to fuck._

_No! No, I’m not earning my place here. I’m not. I’m not! I always have a place here. Alpha promised. Not Alpha. Derek. Derek promised. Place here as long as I want it. Place here with Derek. Derek and Isaac and Scott and Jackson and Lydia. Pack. Pack here. I have a pack. I’m not earning my place. It’s okay if I’m a burden._

_But I don’t want to be a burden. I can be better. I’ll learn to be better. I’m a good beta._

“STILES!”

It’s Scott’s voice that breaks through the moment.  Stiles feels his friend’s hands firmly on his shoulders and uses the sensation to ground himself.  He pulls his palms down from where he’d been covering his face as he descended into his headspace and opens his eyes to see Scott’s staring worriedly back. 

“You good?” he asks too loudly, headphones dutifully still in place.

Stiles nods, breathing deeply.  Scott waits a few moments more until the worst of the tension leaves Stiles before he releases him. He glances back to Morrell for a moment before taking his spot by the window again.  Stiles gives him a thumbs up and forces a smile. 

_I’m dealing, dude. It’s okay. Don’t worry too much. And don’t get pissed at her like you did last time._

As much as it helps, as much as he needs Scott here for moments like that when it wouldn’t be safe for Morrell to step in herself, it’s a perfect example of the trouble he’s causing everyone he cares about. 

“How much of that was out loud?” he wonders, finally turning his attention back to the conversation.

“None,” she replies.  “Want to tell—”

“No.”

“Stiles, I’m here to help, and I can’t if you won’t—”

“Just—look I’m the point is. I’m scared of everything, worried about everything, I let my conditioning come through when I’m stressed. I’m already pathetic enough even when I _don’t_ start gushing feelings about how terrified I am of losing them or being taken. I’m not going to let _all_ the crazy fully vent on them.  I’m not. I’m just going to talk to you and stow my shit as well as I can between times and keep working on functioning like a half-normal person.  Maybe you think I should share and care and cry to them, but I listened to you when you said it might be good to go to the old houses and get the memories straight.  I listened when you said they wouldn’t mind helping me—and they didn’t—but all it did was make them worry more.  So if it takes me longer to deal with this because I don’t let them know how bad it gets, then it’ll just have to take longer. I’m going to lessen the load however I can.”

_It’s not much, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something at least—like I’m keeping it from being as bad as it could be.  I know it’s messed up, but it’s just the way I see it._

“I understand that you’re hesitant to lean too heavily on your friends,” she says, voice still obnoxiously calm despite Stiles’ outburst and lingering frustration, “but I really think you have to get either the abandonment worries we’ve talked about or the fear of the alphas returning under control if you’re going to be able to handle nonpack locations. You can’t worry about both those things _and_ handle the unpredictable circumstances of being in a place that’s strange to your instincts.”

It’s a logical enough idea—taking one of the predominant worries away clears enough concentration to keep better control in more stressful, unfamiliar surroundings.

Nevertheless he insists, “I get that, but I’ll find a way to manage one or the other without shoving more responsibility on them.”

_I’m not entirely sure how, but I’ll figure out something on my own._

           

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s been just over a week since things went so well at Caroline’s.  Tonight Stiles tries his first real public outing, and it’s terrifyingly exciting.  Isaac just hopes to God they’re not rushing into this.

“Okay, one more time,” Stiles says as they pull into the parking deck. “It’s the late movie on a weeknight. Crowd should be low. Whole pack’s going to be there.  The theatre will be dark.  Scott’s already watched the movie for potential surprises. If I start to shift you’ll stop me.   Lydia’s got smoke bombs in her purse to set the alarms off. If anyone sees me, they’ll say it was hallucinogens like at the club with the kanima.  Dad’s on call at the station tonight. He’ll help with the cover if he needs to,” Stiles recites for what seems like the billionth time.

“Right,” Isaac confirms.  “You’re going to be great. You’ve been doing fucking awesome lately.  Even Morrell thinks you’re ready.”

“You got this,” Derek agrees as they pull into a parking spot.  “We’re with you all the way, but if you don’t think you’re ready—”

“No, it’s time,” Stiles says firmly.  “Gotta happen eventually. We’ve planned it.  It’s as controlled as uncontrolled can get.  Let’s do this shit.”

_That’s it, Stiles. You can do this. You can handle it._

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles has _no_ idea what the movie is even about—well, he has _some_ ideal he knows it’s some Pixar animated geared-toward-kids-but-probably-going-to-make-the-adults-cry kind of movie—because he mostly just stares, unseeing, at the screen, focusing instead on monitoring his control.  He’d thought walking in would be the hard part, but he’d followed behind Scott through the nearly vacant lobby, not looking up, flanked by Derek and Isaac, and just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.  It turns out it’s much, _much_ more nerve-racking to sit still and remain someplace outside pack territory with nonpack people present and refrain from retreating or attacking while all his instincts scream for him to just do _something._   He’s got a death grip on Derek and Isaac’s hands, clinging to the anchor as the stress threatens to engulf him.  At some point, Isaac takes his left hand from Stiles, swapping it for his right so that he can put his left arm up over Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles relaxes just slightly under the weight of it.

"Breathe, Stiles, just breathe,” he says quietly.  “You got this.”

Stiles pulls in another shaky breath, trying desperately to tune out the repetitious _not pack, not pack, not pack_ that’s thrumming through the back of his mind as his hearing hones in on the unfamiliar heartbeats of the three other people in the theatre.  They’re sitting in the back while the pack took the seats up in the front nearest the emergency exit.  Even if he shifts, they’re far enough away that the pack would stop him. 

_I’m not going to shift though. I’m going to be fine. Just gotta keep calm. Control my heart rate.  I’m okay. I’m not going to shift._

He thinks for a moment of letting his claws out.  He knows the clarity he’d get from letting them pierce just slightly into his thigh, but he also knows how much the others would hate it.  They’d want to leave. They’d think it was a sign this was too much too soon.

 _It’s okay._ _I don’t need the pain. I can do this. I can do this._

Eventually he gives up all pretense of watching the movie, closing his eyes and putting all his attention on the fact that the pack’s around him, trying to let it tune out the unfamiliarity of the place and the other three pulses.

_Pack.  Derek and Isaac and Scott and Lydia and Jackson. They’re not going anywhere._

“Stiles, if you want to leave, it’s—”

“Not yet. I can make it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I can make it,” he insists more firmly. “I don’t want to leave.”

It’s a lie, _such_ a lie. Every fiber of him wants to get the hell out of here, but he’s not going to. He won’t. Because he wants to be better in the long-term more than he wants to be calm right now, so he clings ever-tighter to Isaac and Derek and keeps the control.

_Just a little longer.  I can do this. I’ve done things way worse than this. I can make it. Just a little bit more._

When the credits finally roll, he lets out an audible sigh of relif.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.  _I actually did it._

“You were fucking awesome,” Isaac tells him, leaning over for a quick kiss that draws even more of the tension from Stiles.

“Now _that’s_ how we should have spent the movie,” Stiles tells him, forcing a smile through the stress.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

  

Derek trails along behind Stiles and Isaac as they head back out to the parking deck. Stiles may be grinning and agreeing with all the congratulatory comments coming from the others, but he also hasn’t loosened his hold on Derek or Isaac.  There’s a strain on his face that Derek guesses won’t go away until he’s safely back in the camero.  Still, it’s a huge step forward for Stiles, and Derek still can’t believe everything went so seamlessly.  They had so many plans for how to react if something went wrong that he almost forgot it was an option for it all to go _right._

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” Stiles says as Derek pulls out of the parking spot.  “I’ve got too much pent up energy.”

“What do you want to do then?” Isaac wonders.

“Let’s go back to the house—the new house.”

“It’s still the same concrete slab it was this morning,” Isaac reminds him.  “They don’t start framing until next week.”

“Yeah, but—I dunno. Let’s go anyway? I can’t do more people tonight, and it’s as good a place as any, right?”

“Sure,” Derek agrees, turning to head toward Hale territory. 

He still can’t quite believe the house is actually coming to fruition; it seems like a dream he’ll wake from any moment.

“So Lydia wants you to get her a credit card for decorating,” Stiles says, leaning up between Isaac and Derek. “Did she tell you?”

“She mentioned it.”

_About a billion times._

“You gonna cave?”

“If I get her one, it’s not _caving_ ,” Derek replies moodily.

“You already ordered it, didn’t you?” Stiles guesses correctly.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“You totally did!”

“Really, Derek?” Isaac wonders.  “You’re seriously giving—”

“She had a reasonable budget,” Derek replies defensively.  He’d thought it would be a while—if ever—before he had to own up to this.  “And a whole presentation  and binder thing for ideas and she—”

“You just wanted her to stop making you listen to all her interior design arguments?” Isaac supposes.

_Exactly._

“She’s the best one to take care of it,” Derek deflects, “and she’s pack now.”

She made it official about a week ago, making the blood bond that linked her into the dynamic the wolves can feel even if her human instincts are too weak to pick up on it.  Derek had worried it might not work, given her immunity to Peter’s bite, but the connection came through without issue, bringing Lydia officially into the family. 

“She’s our Wendy,” Stiles adds, still determinedly campaigning for the new nickname. 

“Dude, I told you; she’s got way too much spitfire to be Wendy,” Isaac argues.

“Then what? Tink?”

“Yeah, _you_ be the one to tell her she’s classified as a temperamental pixie.  We’ll see how that goes.”

“Just give us a head’s up so we can have Deaton on standby to patch you up once she’s done with you,” Derek adds.

“Whatever. I’m not scared of Lydia.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t tell her _that_ either,” Isaac advises.

“Shut up.”

Personally, Derek thinks she’s probably a Tiger Lily, but he’s not getting in the middle of the argument. 

 

****************************************************************************************************************************

 

They stand at the edge of the vast foundation of the soon-to-be-framed pack house.  Isaac knew it was going to be massive; he’s looked at the plans a dozen times. It still didn’t full prepare him for something this scope.  It’s going to be awesome and insane and he’s not entirely sure he’s going to be able to contain the excitement as the end-date on the build gets closer.

“Come on,” Stiles says, moving away from them and starting to jog towards the pond.  “Who wants to go night swimming?”

“It’s going to be cold as hell,” Isaac reminds him. 

“So? You can tackle a kanima but not a little cold water?”

“You get in if you want, but there’s no way I—”

Derek catches the dart that would’ve gone into Isaac’s neck, shifting and growling in the direction it came from as a dozen more shoot toward them.  It’s impossible to stop them all, and they pull them out frantically, hoping to beat the sedative Isaac can already feel coursing his veins.  In the corner of his vision, he sees Stiles fall. 

“Derek—” Isaac slurs, grasping at his shirt trying to stay upright but Derek’s toppling too.

He can hear the footsteps as the attackers approach, but he can’t so much as twitch his fingers.

 _Hunters?_ he assumes as a silhouette comes into his ever-fading vision

But just before everything goes black he sees the telltale glint of two red eyes hovering above him. An ominous, exultant chuckle echoes in his ears as the darkness overcomes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> It's been a while since I've rambled in end notes; hope you'll indulge me.
> 
> A few house-keeping notes:
> 
> I couldn't quite bear to close off this story. :) Shut up, I can quit Desolate whenever I want. I'm not a addicted. I'm fine. Totally fine. I could totally quit whenever I want. It's not eating my soul or anything. I'm FINE. *cough, cough, ahem* what? oh yeah, notes...where was I?....
> 
> I know we didn't get to see Stiles talk to Morrell about the "abandonment issues" but I'm hoping with the fact that you've seen his conditioned fear of being thrown from the pack and his nightmares of his friends leaving him, you understand that issue well enough without the on-screen therapy time. We also didn't see anymore recovered memories from houses because it would've been more or less more of the same and i didn't want to slow plot to repeat myself.
> 
> Yes, it would have made sense for Stiles first "real" public outing to be Caroline's as well, but I decided he wouldn't want to put that on Lucy and Darrel, and he also wouldn't want to risk losing that place as a retreat if things went poorly. the movies was much more impersonal in the event of catastrophe.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know this isn't fluff right? IT'S THE FUCKING ALPHA PACK. Brace yourself accordingly.
> 
> I apologize for not being sorry.

“Hello, Derek,” the alpha says as Derek opens his eyes blearily.  “How are you feeling?”

The first punch hits him square in the gut before the claws come out.  There’s three coming at him, and especially with the trace amounts of sedative still in his system, he’s no match.  He’s pinned to the floor in less than five minutes with the alpha’s—the one named Alec—claws at his throat.  Two other alphas, ones Derek doesn’t recognize, flank him.

“Do it,” Derek goads. “What’re you waiting for?”

“Come on, Derek, don’t be stupid.  You can’t possibly think you’ll get any death that easy.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Agony and blood and shrieks of pain,” Alec says simply, “I’m not Thomas, you know.  He was always going on and on with his intricate plans and drawing things out because he loved the chase more than he loved the kill—but you know that, don’t you? It’s the only reason you and your measly little pack ever stood a chance against us.  We spent too much time playing games to keep you guessing. It gave you a fighting chance—let you bring in hunters to do the dirty work for you.”

“I killed Thomas myself,” Derek growls back.  “I—”

“Ripped him apart, yes I know,” Alec replies uninterestedly, “but only after Christopher Argent’s arrows brought him to his knees.  How does it feel to know you owe your life—your pack’s lives—to _humans_?”

_You think I fucking care as long as they’re still fucking alive?_

“What the fuck do you want?” Derek repeats.

“I told you already,” he answers. “I’m not Thomas. I didn’t come for the chase; I came for the kill.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“The best kills are the slow ones,” he informs with a smile. “I like to take my time—know the best ways to draw it out, know the things that cause the most damage, push so far that you’re not fighting death anymore, you’re _begging_ for it—we’re not going to just kill you three, Derek; we’re going to _destroy_ you.”

Derek snarls involuntarily at the threat though rationally he knows damn well he’s outnumbered; besides, even if he could run, he’s not leaving without Stiles and Isaac. He scans the room then, searching for them.  Isaac’s nearest, maybe twenty yards away, lying unconscious on the concrete floor of the warehouse they’ve been brought to.  Derek recognizes the alpha guarding him, Rachael, the second survivor of the original pack.  Stiles is a bit farther away, surrounded by two betas Derek hasn’t seen before.

“Maybe I’ll save you for last,” Alec adds, “it would be no less than you deserve really. After letting your guard down, going lax on your pack, worrying about bonding and family and all that _bullshit_ instead of keeping them in line and teaching them to fight.”

_No, no, I didn’t let my guard down. It wasn’t—we had to help Stiles. There were more important things than—_

But there’s truth in the claim, and Derek knows it. They haven’t actually trained at all; they haven’t spent time on anything but bonding the pack and helping Stiles.  The realization of how totally he’s failed by neglecting to realize what a tactical error that was sinks in and a terrible, terrible dread begins to settle over him.

_I swore I’d protect them. I swore I wouldn’t let them down._

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Alec challenges.  “We’ve been back for days and no one even noticed.  We attacked you on _your own territory_.  You let yourself get distracted.  You failed the betas you don’t deserve to have in the first place.  You’re as pathetic an excuse for an alpha as you ever were—in fact I think you may just be getting worse with time.”

“Fuck you,” Derek retorts, “You sick, psychotic—”

A whimper from across the warehouse pulls his attention as well as that of the alphas. Stiles is stirring slightly, and the grin it brings to Alec’s face sends a chill down Derek’s spine.

“Leave him alone,” Derek insists. “Do whatever the fuck you want to with me to get off on your sick little games but—”

“If you try to run,” Alec interrupts, “if you start a fight, if you do _anything_ we don’t like really, I will gut one of them and strangle the other with the spilled intestines.  Any questions?”

The sincerity in the words makes Derek’s stomach turn.  There’s delight in Alec’s eyes at the suggestion. This sick fuck would make good on that threat without blinking, and there’s no doubting it.  Derek doesn’t dare try to resist.  As Alec saunters slowly over toward Stiles, Derek wracks his brain for something, _anything_ he can do that could save them.

_Oh please, God, I have to do something.  They can’t die here. Not like this. I was supposed to protect them. I was supposed to keep them safe.  I promised to keep them safe. How do I get them out of here?_

 

***************************************************************************************************************************8

 

“You were bad, beta, very bad,” the all-too-familiar voice informs him.  “You will be punished.”

Terror surges through Stiles like a jolt of electricity as he struggles to fully wake and think straight through the lingering haze of the tranquilizer.  He recoils from the voice at first, attempting to flee, before the pieces fall into place and he remembers what happened. He starts swinging immediately, shifting and striking out in blind terror, but no blows land on his assailant before claws slash into Stiles’ torso.  In the next moment he’s pinned to the wall, unable to move, barely able to breathe against the crushing pressure on his windpipe. Only then does he have enough pause to take in the scene around him.

He sees Derek, bloody and bruised, lying across the room with two unfamiliar alphas looming over him.  Isaac’s to the side, just starting to stir, but one of Stiles’ old alphas—Rachael?—has him easily pinned to the floor, eyes wide in fear as he looks to where Stiles has been fighting. He turns his attention back to his immediate captor, the alpha named Alec who haunts _so_ fucking many of Stiles’ nightmares, and he tries his best to keep the fear off his face as he struggles to pull in breath.

“Fighting your Alpha; now we can’t have that, can we?” Alec asks darkly.  “There are rules, beta.”

“I’m not your fucking beta,” Stiles rasps out.

“Oh, but you are, and you know it.  Maybe we sent you back to Derek as a nice little distraction while Rachael and I regrouped.  Maybe he let you into his pack despite how _pathetically_ useless and burdensome you are.”

 _No, no, not a burden. I’m not a burden. I’m not._ Stiles fights the conditioning he knows Alec wants to trigger.  _Not a burden. I belong with them. They want me. not a burden. Not a fucking burden. You’re lying!_

“But you never _really_ got away from us, beta,” Alec goes on. “We were there, in your head the whole time, because you belong here, with us, serving your pack in whatever way is required of you.”

_I don’t care if you were still in my head. I’m not yours. I’m not. I got away. I’m not yours._

 “I’m not in your—”

His protests choke off as Alec’s grip tightens, choking him completely, sliding him up the wall until his feet dangle below him.  Derek and Isaac scream enraged protests.  Stiles struggles as best he can, but the grip doesn’t slacken even as he sinks his claws into Alec’s arm.  Alec chuckles lightly as Stiles efforts slacken and his vision begins to darken at the edges. Just before he loses consciousness, Alec removes his hold, and Stiles falls to the ground, coughing and choking as he sucks painful gasps into his starved lungs.

“There are rules, beta,” Alec says again.  “If you raise a hand to a superior pack mate, what happens?”

“Fuck off.”

“What HAPPENS?!” Alec thunders, the kick Stiles doesn’t see in time to dodge landing hard enough to crack ribs and send Stiles back into the wall.

“You can give it up.  I’m not playing along with your games, Alec.”

 “You _dare_ call me—”

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, you’re not my alpha!” Stiles insists.

He’s going to pay, and pay dearly, for words like that to Alec, but he doesn’t care.  Maybe if he draws out the wrath Alec will get sloppy.  Maybe he’ll lose his temper and once he’s temper’s gone his reason goes with it.  Maybe—just maybe—it’ll be distracting enough of a moment for Isaac or Derek to start fighting and run? Stiles doubts it, but maybe.  Even if it’s not, he’s still not cowering to this son of a bitch.  He’s going down as smartassed and stubborn as he possibly can.  The clawed hand that smacks across his face lets him know the words had their desired effect.

“I am your Alpha, and you will obey me,” he insists.

“Doubt it.”

This time Stiles strikes back as Alec’s hand flies at him. The ensuing scuffle doesn’t last long, and Stiles is reminded again just how fucked they are as Alec pins him to the wall, claws deep in Stiles’ arms.

“What happens?” Alec growls.

“Fuck you. You’re not my alpha,” Stiles repeats steadily.  “You rules don’t—”

Alec starts in again, blows raining down as Stiles fights back as best he can, trying to use his knowledge of Alec to his advantage and succeeding for just a little while; in the end, Alec is still an alpha, and he pins Stiles to the ground, foot resting over Stiles now-broken ribs and bearing so much weight Stiles knows Alec’s close to puncturing a lung.

“I am your Alpha,” he barks, “say it, you pathetic little wretch!”

“Over my dead body.”

“Oh, beta, you know you don’t deserve anything so sweet as death.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************

 

 _Stop it, Stiles! Stop provoking him!_ Isaac pleads silently.

He knows damn well Stiles won’t stop. He’ll fight because he’s Stiles again now.  The rebellion is going to bring hell on Stiles, and he doesn’t care. He’s not giving in, and Isaac _loves_ that Stiles is enough himself to fight but _dreads_ to see the wrath that will come down on him for goading Alec. 

_We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.  But how?_

Derek’s healing well enough, but there are three alphas on him; Stiles is getting the shit beaten out of him; Isaac’s pinned by an alpha with one of the lackey betas that came over for backup once Alec moved to Stiles.

_We are so fucked._

_How long have we been here? Long enough for the others to notice we’re gone? There’s light coming in through the upper windows so it’s morning at least. Is that long enough? It has to be long enough. The sheriff’s home by now. He’ll know we’re gone. They’ll be looking for us. They’ll come looking for us._

_But we looked for Stiles for months and still never found him._

Isaac can’t stop the panic building inside of him as he watches helplessly while Stiles falls again under Alec’s assault. Isaac tries to break free of Rachael’s hold, but she’s got all the advantage; it’s all but useless.

“Last chance, beta,” Alec warns Stiles, voice low and deadly with quiet rage.  “I am your Alpha, and you will obey me. Recite the rule.”

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

_Say it, Stiles. Just tell him the fucking rule!_

But Stiles doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Instead he spits in Alec’s face, blood and saliva spattering across the Alec’s cheek as his eyes flare red in fury. 

“Losing your touch again?” Rachel wonders teasingly.

“I’ll teach you who your goddamn Alpha is, you little shit!” Alec thunders in reply.  “I’ll remind you _exactly_ who you belong to and what you’re good for.”

_No, no, NO, NO, NO!_

Derek knows where this is headed, and Stiles does too judging by the way his defiant calm all but disappears.  He fights as hard to get away from Alec as Derek and Isaac fight to get to him.  Derek shifts to full Alpha form, desperately trying to break free, not caring anymore about Alec’s previous threat, but they block him at every turn; three against one again as the beta by Alec comes to join the two forcing Derek back.  He can hear Isaac losing his fight to free himself from Rachael and the beta with her.  Stiles is still weak from his wounds but it still takes minute or two of struggle before Alec slams him face-first into the hard concrete, piercing through Stiles with his claws to hold him down.  The first cry of anguish that escapes Stiles when Alec thrusts into him shatters what little sanity remained in Derek.  He advances again blindly, no longer feeling the pain of the wounds, no longer feeling anything except the desperate, _desperate_ need to reach Stiles.

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles’ face is turned away, but through the terror and the humiliation and the pain Stiles can still hear Isaac shrieking his name and the agonized howling that signals Derek’s taken alpha form in an attempt to fight to his fullest. He can hear them losing, hear when they fall and get back up only to fall again, hear the triumphant cackles of the alphas as they beat them back.  He knows if they can’t get away in this moment, trying to save him from Alec, that they can’t get away at all.

_We can’t fight them._

The knowledge is so much worse than the physical pain.  It floods every corner of his mind with a suffocating sense of hopelessness.

_Oh God, what do we do?_

When Alec finally, _finally_ stops, leaving Stiles bloodied and broken at his feet, Stiles turns his head slowly to face Isaac and Derek.  They’re both back to human, pulses weak, blood-soaked and crumpled and defeated; Stiles can’t suppress a whimper at the sight.

_We can’t fight them._

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles stays down, unmoving as Alec grins around the warehouse at the handiwork of Rachael and the rest of the pack.  He uses a kick to get Stiles on his back again, and Stiles lets out a pathetic round of whimpers.

“Please, Alpha, please,” Stiles begs, and the terrified pleas slice through Isaac like a knife.  “I’m sorry, Alpha, please.”

“Stiles, no!” Isaac chokes out past the searing pain of still-healing wounds, barely suppressing a sob.

_No, no, no. Please, no, Stiles._

A triumphant smile spreads across Alec’s face. 

“He’s not your Stiles anymore,” Alec says gloatingly.  “He’s our beta. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles answers readily.

“Stiles, no, you’re ours. You’re with us!” Isaac insists until Rachael silences him.

“On your feet, beta.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

A few whines of pain escape Stiles as he struggles to move quickly in spite of his wounds; Isaac’s fighting the tears of rage and grief at the idea of Stiles falling back to their beta. He looks desperately to Derek, but Derek looks just as wrecked as Isaac feels.

_We can’t just let this happen.  We have to do something!  What the fuck can we do?_

_"_ Tell me what happens when you raise a hand to a superior pack member.”

"Alpha, please,” Stiles beseeches, falling to his knees immediately.  “Please don’t. I can be better. I can be good, Alpha, please. I can make it up to you, Alpha. _Please_ I _—_ ”

He yelps in pain as Alec’s claws rake across his chest.

“Stop that,” he orders. “You know how I hate when you beg.”

“Yes, Alpha. I’m sorry, Alpha.”

“Answer the question.”

“You lose the hand, Alpha” Stiles says, voice trembling.

“You fought me.”

“I’m sorry, Alpha. So sorry. I was confused, Alpha, but I know better now.  I can be better, Alpha.  Please, I won’t ever—”

“I am not without mercy; I will forgive.”

“Thank you, Alpha, thank you,” Stiles gushes in sickening gratitude, “I—”

 “ _If,_ ” Alec adds.  “You make it up to me.”

“Yes, Alpha. Anything! Thank you, Alpha.”

_No, Stiles, no. Come back._

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Alec saunters toward Derek, leaving a quaking and hunched Stiles in his wake. 

_Come on, Stiles. Pull yourself back. Don’t let them have you.  Fight it. Fight them.  Please don’t let them have you._

Alec’s grinning in victory as he approaches.  Derek bares his teeth, fangs descending though that’s the most shift he can manage until his wounds heal more.

“Now, I _specifically_ told you what would happen if you fought, Derek.”

 _What the fuck did you expect me to do? Stand here?_  

“And you fought anyway,” Alec continues.  “You even cost me a beta,” he adds with a nod to the still form by the wall.  “Of course, I just got an _excellent_ replacement, so it works out well enough.”

Alec smiles with a nod back to Stiles, and Derek growls, “He’s not your beta; he’s mine!”

“Oh, really? You sure about that?”

“Yes, you sick bastard! You can’t have him!”

_You can’t! Once was enough.   You’re not getting him again. I will rip every last one of you apart. I will use my last fucking breath to claw out your heart. I will—_

“Look at him, Derek; we’ve got him already.”

“You—”         

“Now I said I would gut one and strangle the other,” he reminds as he walks back to where Stiles still kneels, visibly trembling, “but this beta is just too well-trained to waste like that.”

“Thank you, Alpha,” Stiles murmurs quietly.

“But there are plenty of other ways I can use him against Isaac.  So you just sit and enjoy the show, Derek; make yourself comfortable. Your turn will come soon enough.”

The two Alphas remain on either side of him.  There will be no getting to Isaac just as there was no getting to Stiles. They’ll kill him before he can get there; of course, that’s not going to stop him trying.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You want to please me, beta? You want to make up for your disobedience?”

“Yes, Alpha, please,” Stiles answers eagerly.

“Come.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

Alec and Stiles loom into Isaac’s vision.  He knows Derek’s watching helplessly; he knows the alphas want to see a fearful reaction from him.  So he’s trying his best to keep his face blank, but he’s not sure how long that’ll last.

_What the fuck are you planning. you psycho? What’re you going to make him do?_

“The louder he screams the faster you’ll be forgiven,” Alec says to Stiles.  “You know what I expect.”

“Yes, Alpha, thank you.”

“He’s still healing,” Rachael adds, “Go slowly so you don’t end it too quickly.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles replies, extending his claws as he crouches next to Isaac.

_No, Stiles, don’t do this. Come on; snap out of it. Stiles! STILES!_

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

"Stiles, no!” Derek yells, his plea reverberating through the room and ringing in Stiles’ ears.

_Oh, God, Isaac, please, please, I’m so fucking sorry, but I don’t know what else to do.  We can’t fight them.  We can’t.  I have to at least catch them off guard if we  do get a chance to fight them.  We have to stall and maybe I can draw this out if they’re getting off on watching me be the one to hurt you.  Maybe it’ll buy us time.  They’re coming for us I swear to God, just—just—oh my God I’m so sorry._

He uses Rachael’s direction to go slowly to postpone some of the worst things they’d want to see.  He’s trying with everything in him not to think about how familiar these motions are. He’s barely, _barely_ keeping enough focus to walk this delicate line between the subservient wretch and the real Stiles—only the purpose of saving Derek and Isaac could anchor him well enough to try this, and he’s still not sure it’ll be enough to last—just a fraction too far in either direction and he either loses himself or gets himself killed.   He knows which he’d prefer. 

“I know you’re still in there, Stiles,” Isaac gasps during a pause, and Stiles panics internally for just a moment, thinking Isaac’s outing his plan in his tortured state before he continues, “and it’s okay.  It’s okay, Stiles.  It’ not your fault. It’s all gonna be okay. They can’t keep you; you’ll come back to us. It’s gonna be okay.”

_Jesus Christ I can’t fucking do this. Oh my, God, Isaac, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry Isaac. You don’t deserve this, and I don’t deserve you, but I’m trying to help I fucking swear. God, I’m so sorry. So so so fucking sorry.  You’re never going to forgive me for this but at least maybe you’ll be alive to hate me. God, I’m so sorry.  It’ll stop soon. It has to stop soon. They have to stop to let you heal if they want to keep it up.  You can take more than you think you can. Just stay. Stay fighting. We’re not quite dead yet, just—just—a little more time—Jesus, I’m so fucking sorry I can’t save you from this._

“Enough,” Rachael says finally.

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles answers, retracting his claws.

_Thank God._

But his relief is short-lived when he sees Rachael means to start in herself. 

“You’ll start in on the rival Alpha while she has her fun with the beta,” Alec tells him.

“Yes, Alpha.”

Alec lays a hand on his shoulder to jerk him back as he moves toward Derek.

“But first,” Alec says pushing him down to his knees.  “I have another task of atonement for you.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles says. “Thank you, Alpha.”

Alec’s already half-hard from Isaac’s torture, and Stiles knows without having to look up that he’s watching Rachael work as he readies to fuck into his beta’s mouth.

_This is the kind of chance I was waiting for, you masochistic, lecherous bastard.  I’m going to rip you apart and enjoy every fucking second of it._

It’s not the ideal moment.  Isaac’s in god-awful shape, Derek’s still not completely healed, Stiles isn’t at his best either, but it’s a moment of advantage, and Stiles can’t bear to wait for the next one. 

_What if Alec had wanted Isaac next instead of Rachael? What happens when these other sick bastard alphas get their turns? I can’t even predict their actions. How long before I can’t keep this balance of control? How long before I let the conditioning fully in? Or how long before they ask me to go too far on Isaac or Derek?_

He can’t keep stalling like this, can’t go back and forth between rending Isaac’s flesh and Derek’s while he waits for help to come.  He’s taking his chance now; he’s doing what he can now, knowing they’ll fighting once he starts it, deciding in this moment that even if they die trying to get away it’s better than living with all the nightmarish possibilities of what could happen next if they wait for rescue.

He waits until Alec’s on the brink, completely distracted, and sinks his claws into both the alpha’s thighs, slicing through the femoral arteries in one deft motion, and then biting down with fanged teeth as Alec tries to pull out to get away.  He relishes the sound of Alec’s agony as he pounces on the fallen Alpha, diving for his throat.  

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The moments after Stiles strikes are total chaos.  Derek reacts before he can even fully comprehend what’s happened.  One of the alphas guarding him rushes Stiles with a growl of fury, leaving Derek the first opportunity he’s had at a nearly-fair fight with the other.  He can feel the protests of unhealed wounds, but he’s got the frantic need to get to Stiles and Isaac to drive him against the pain.  When the alpha finally falls dead at his feet, he looks immediately for Stiles, honestly amazed he’s not dead yet under the almighty onslaught seeking vengeance for Alec.  It’s not until Stiles flings Rachel bodily away from him that Derek gets a clear view of him and sees the glint of red shining in Stiles’ eyes, the unyielding rage of a newly formed Alpha fueling his fight. Derek’s on Rachel in the next moment, finishing what Stiles started as Stiles takes the other alpha. He gets several good hits in, Rachel staggering away before him, and he’s sure he’s almost won until she surges up again, clearly exaggerating injuries until she gained advantage.  The howl of pain from the wolf Stiles is fighting is cut short with a sickening gurgle as he tears its throat to shreds. 

“Kill him, Beta!” Rachel shrieks.

Only then does Derek realize the beta’s been sent to stand guard over Isaac, who’s much too injured to be a threat in the fight, but excellently placed to be a distraction.  Perfectly obedient, the beta sets in on Isaac as Isaac fights weakly back.

“NO!”

Derek starts toward them, but Stiles is there first, eviscerating the beta as he pulls him away from Isaac. 

 “ISAAC, NO!!”

Rachel takes the moment for what it was: her chance at escape; Derek’s not following her, not when Isaac’s bleeding out on the warehouse floor gasping their names.  It seems the new alpha impulses in Stiles are less willing to allow the flight.  He shifts into a full alpha form, bounding over Derek and Isaac as he howls and gives chase.

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, and that’s how Isaac knows it’s bad. Really bad.

“Hey, hey, come on, Isaac. I got you. Stay with me,” Derek says, kneeling beside him, eyes wide in panic as he takes in the extent of the wounds.  He’s trying desperately to put pressure wherever he can to staunch the bleeding.  Isaac can feel the slick, warm liquid pooling under him.  “They’ll start healing in a minute; they’re just beta wounds. It’s okay. It’s going to be alright.”

“Okay, Derek,” Isaac agrees feebly, even though he knows it’s a lie. 

Nothing’s healing anymore, not even the beta wounds.  Isaac knows what that means.

“It’s—I gotta—you need Deaton—or someone or—fuck I don’t have a—don’t have a phone—I don’t even know—where the hell are we?—fuck, fuck, shit, what the fuck do I—”

“’Sokay, Derek,” Isaac tells him, and it’s clear from the look on his face Derek didn’t realize he was talking out loud.

“I have to go get help,” he says more assertively, show of calm back on for Isaac as he tries to rein in his panic.  “I have to—”

“Don’t leave,” Isaac begs, mustering the insane strength it takes to lift his arm to clutch at Derek’s.  “Please.”

_Don’t let me die alone, Derek , please._

“Isaac, I have to get—”

“ _Please_.”

“Okay, okay,” Derek acquiesces.  “I’ll stay, and then Stiles—Stiles will come back and he’ll go for help and—”

“Derek,” Isaac interrupts quietly.

“No,” Derek says firmly, “No, don’t look at me like that; don’t you fucking dare you hear me?” he demands.  “You’re going to be _fine_.”

“Love you,” Isaac tries again. “Both’f you.”

“We love you too, you idiot,” Derek answers tersely.  “Now, stop trying to say goodbye because if you die on me, and I’ll fucking kill you, Isaac! You can’t!”

“’Sokay,” Isaac soothes, understanding the grief in the threat.

But it’s not okay.  It’s not okay at all because Derek is terrified and wrecked and Stiles is God knows where and who knows if he’ll come back from the shit that just went down and now Isaac’s not going to be here to help any of them.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  Stiles was getting better. They were going to go out on dates and help build the house and—and fucking live happily ever after or some shit.  They deserve it. They’ve been through hell already.  Everything was supposed to start getting better.

“ISAAC?!”

Stiles’ panicking cry echoes through the warehouse just as the doors on the other side burst open and Scott, Jackson, Lydia, Deaton, the sheriff, and both Argents burst into the warehouse.  

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 _Pack!_ His first elated thought when the group enters, followed quickly by _Not pack! Not pack! Hunters!_

They’re moving in on Isaac, sprinting toward the wounded beta, and Derek’s not stopping them.  They’ll get him too.

_NO! No, you can’t have them. Can’t hurt them. They’re mine. Mine! NO!_

The instincts flood in as he fights.  He knows the wolves are protecting the humans, preventing him from shielding Isaac and Derek, and it only feeds his anger. 

_Traitors! Both of you! Bad betas. You will be punished!_

He throws them back just as the hunters’ arrows find a home in his back.  He roars with fury, turning to rush at them, but he’s tackled to the side with a force that could only come from another Alpha.  His head connects hard with the concrete, he feels his skull crack, dazing him as the Alpha pins him to the ground.

“STILES, STOP!!! IT’S ME!! IT’S DEREK!!! STOP!!!”

_Derek. Derek.  It’s Derek._

“Isaac, protect Isaac! He’s hurt! He’s bleeding. So much blood, Derek, I could smell it. There’s _too_ much. He’s—he’s—”

_He’s dying._

“They’re helping him. I don’t need to protect him, Stiles. He’s safe. They’re helping. Deaton’s helping. They came to save us, okay? They’re helping. You see. Look Stiles.   They’re helping.”

He turns his pounding head to watch and sees Deaton working frantically with Lydia beside him.

“Not pack; he’s not pack; don’t trust anything outside the pack; protect Isaac from—”

“Their rules, not ours,” Derek counters, hands coming up to frame Stiles’ face. “Look at me, Stiles. It’s okay. You’re safe; they’re all dead.  We’re safe. You can trust Deaton. He’s going to help.”

“Isaac—Isaac—”

“They’re helping, Isaac. It’s gonna be okay.  Shift back to human, Stiles. You’re safe. It’s okay.  You’ve _got_ to quit fighting, Stiles, _please._ Block out the conditioning. Find the memories. Find _you._ Come on, concentrate. Come back.”

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek can see in his eyes the moment Stiles fully surfaces again; he shifts slowly back to human beneath Derek, sagging in exhaustion as the tears start to fall.  Derek lets him up, holding onto him for dear life because he’d be so, _so_ fucking scared that they weren’t getting out of here alive, so scared that even if they did Stiles would never come back to them.  Stiles clings back just as tightly; after a moment Derek stands, lifting Stiles with him, and walks back toward Isaac.

_Please God don’t let him die. Not like this. Not after everything._

As Derek looks on in helpless horror, Deaton and Lydia are forcing concoctions down Isaac’s throat, spreading herbs and poultices and stitching wounds the old fashioned way.  Derek sits against the wall with Stiles, neither of them slackening their grip for a moment. It takes him longer than it should to realize Stiles is apologizing. 

“—I didn’t know what else to do—I—”

“Shhhhh, Stiles, it’s okay.”

“I fucking—”

“You saved us, dumbass; you were fucking amazing. You’re the only reason we had a chance. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. You were amazing.”

_You were so fucking brave, Stiles. I don’t know how the hell you kept the conditioning out.  You fucking saved all of us. Don’t think this is your fault._

 “Derek, he can’t—Isaac can’t—”      

“They’re doing everything they can,” he says, “It’ll be okay.”

He knows how pathetic the words sound; he knows how untrue they might be; but he can’t accept the possibility that they might lose Isaac. He can’t bear that guilt on top of everything else.

_I turned you to protect you, Isaac._

_I was supposed to keep you safe._

_I’m so fucking sorry I let you down._

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles can’t watch as they keep working on Isaac. Instead he keeps his face buried in Derek’s shoulder, honing in on the weak pulse to assure himself there’s still some hope.  Isaac’s not gone yet.

_He can’t die; we’ve been through enough; we can’t lose Isaac. It’s the three of us. It has to be the three of us. We can take anything if it’s the three of us._

_We need Isaac._

_We can’t lose, Isaac._

_Oh, please. Oh, please don’t let us lose Isaac._

“We’ve done all we can,” Deaton says wearily, finally rising to his feet and walking over.  “Some of the treatments are helping, but there’s no way to know yet if it will be enough.”

“So then what do we do now?” Derek wonders.

“We hope for the best,” Deaton replies, “and we wait.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: I ask you to remember that if you kill me, there can be no happy endings and you will never know what happened! *urges you to lay down torches and pitchforks*
> 
> Secondly I say: as much as it hurts me to hurt them, I really felt like this confrontation with the alphas needed to happen, and after the flashbacks you've seen, we all knew they weren't going to just have some witty banter and escape with a hangnail. It was never going to be pretty.
> 
> Thirdly, I remind you: I've promised a good ending.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!


	27. Chapter 27

“Hey,” Scott says, taking a seat beside Stiles.

It’s been nearly two hours.  They’ve treated Derek and Stiles and gotten them cleaned up.  The Argents are disposing of the Alpha Packs’ bodies, and Dad’s at the station to run interference if anything goes wrong with it—more importantly to get him away from Stiles and his shaky control.  Isaac’s still alive, but there’s still too much damage for any kind of conclusive diagnosis.  Stiles retreated out behind the warehouse just a few minutes ago, leaving Derek to the vigil and hoping a little air will help calm the panic buzzing inside him and fighting against his control.

“Hey,” he replies crossing his arms in an attempt to hide the tremors in his hands.

“Anything I can do?”  
“Don’t have a spare miracle stashed somewhere, do you?” Stiles replies humorlessly. 

“Fresh out,” Scott replies.  “I think we used that one up on the fact Deaton implanted that tracker chip four days before they came back.”

“Wasn’t enough,” Stiles comments bitterly.

“Better than four months and still not finding you guys.  It helped, Stiles. It was a good idea.”

It had been his solution to one of the problems he’d discussed with Morrell, theoretically eliminating the potential that the alphas could return and just take him.  He let Deaton put in the chip and allowed himself to pretend the tracker eradicated the threat.

_Did I let my guard down too much? Would I have seen them coming if I didn’t convince myself being taken wasn’t a possibly—all for the sake of going to the fucking movies—I should have been ready. I should have been watching. I should have seen it coming.  I should’ve fucking done something._

He can feel his composure getting closer and closer to the edge as the guilt and anger and fear of losing Isaac builds ever-higher.  When Argent’s SUV pulls up, he logically knows they’re friends, but his control is evaporating long before he can reason himself into a calm response.  He shifts before he can stop it, fangs and claws out as he moves toward the threat; he fights to stop himself as he advances, desperately seeking an anchor to keep out conditioning and instinct.

_Family. Derek. Isaac. Family. Derek. Isaac._

_Isaac._

_Isaac’s hurt._

_Isaac’s weak.  He needs to be protected. He has to heal._

_Don’t let them near Isaac.   Protect Isaac._

_Protect Isaac._

_Protect the pack._

_Nothing matters but the pack._

The beta pulls at his arm, turning him just slightly before he can shove the insolent weakling away with a growl.  The hunters never leave their car; they reverse down the alley to flee, back out on the street in seconds, and he longs to follow and annihilate the threat but he doesn’t dare stray too far from the wounded beta in the warehouse. Instead he turns on the traitorous beta behind him, venting his frustration as he doles out the deserved punishment.

“You protect humans?! _Hunters?!_ Against an _Alpha_?! You disloyal, miserable little shit! That kind of treachery will be punished, beta!” The beta’s pleas for mercy don’t slow his advance. “Learn! Learn your place and your duty! _Nothing_ matters but your pack! _Nothing._ You belong to this pack. Everything you do is for this pack! If you can’t learn that, what use are you? If you’re not useful, you—”

 With a growl the other Alpha comes to block the next blows. He tries to keep from striking him but can’t stop the swing in time.  He pulls back from the attack, shifting back to human form, knees bruising as he hits the asphalt in a groveling hunch.

 “Alpha, forgive me; I—”

“Look at me,” the Alpha commands, and he obeys, pained at the distress he sees in his Alpha’s eyes.  “What’s my name?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Think. Concentrate. What’s my name?” he says more calmly.

_Name. Name. You’re an Alpha. An Alpha, my superior Alpha, and you want me to say your name. What’s your name?_

"Derek,” he finds finally, “You’re Derek’s; you’re—”

_Derek. You’re Derek. Derek, my Alpha. My Derek. I’m Stiles. Stiles. Not just an Alpha. I’m Stiles and—_

************************************************************

 

The horror on Stiles’ face as he comes back to them, taking in the scene and realizing what he’s done, is absolutely gut-wrenching.

“Scott! Oh my God, Scott, I—I didn’t mean—I—fuck, I’m so fucking sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” Scott replies with a strained grin, jaw set against the pain as he props himself up on one arm.  “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay, Stiles.”

Derek’s never been more grateful Scott takes the high road, but he knows it won’t do much to quell Stiles’ guilt. 

“No, it’s not; I—I—”

“Dude, it’s _fine._ ”

“Look at you, I—fuck, you’re not even healing, Scott.”

“You’re an Alpha now, dude.  Give it a minute. I’ll be good as new.  It’s really okay.”

“Scott, could you go check on Isaac?” Derek wonders though Jackson, Lydia, and Deaton are all still inside to watch over him.

“Is something—”

 “He’s the same, Stiles; I just—I think we should maybe stay out here a second until you get the control a little more stable.”

 _And you’re not going to let the guilt go at all while Scott’s lying there bleeding._ “Yeah, sure thing,” Scott agrees, “I’ll let you guys know if there’s any change.”

“Scott, I really—”

“It’s _okay,_ Stiles,” Scott insists as Derek gives him a hand up, and he heads back into the warehouse.

Stiles and Derek stand in silence for a moment or two. It’s not hard to see Stiles is mentally berating himself, trying to fathom how he could attack his best friend like that.

“You helped train the other betas?” Derek guesses, breaking the silence. 

_And it’s never been an issue until now.  You were the newest so in your conditioned state you were always lowest-ranked in the pack._

Stiles nods somberly.  “It’s not an excuse.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing. You panicked. It’s okay.”

“Stop saying it’s okay! I fucking mauled Scott! Did you hear me Derek? Did you hear what I was screaming at him?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“What if it happened when you weren’t here? What if you hadn’t stopped me? You know when the conditioning would’ve told me to stop? When he was fucking _unconscious_! That’s when I would’ve stopped. Jesus Christ I’m—I’m a fucking _monster,_ Derek. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I could barely control the beta in me and now I’ve got fucking Alpha power behind the crazy?! That’s not—that’s not responsibility I’m ready to handle. It’s too much. I don’t want it. I’ll fucking kill people again, Derek. Maybe even the betas and I—I can’t risk that. I _won’t_ risk that. I was dangerous enough, but now—”

“You could fall back,” Derek reminds quietly.

 It’s been on his mind since the moment he had to tackle Stiles when the others first burst in.  Alpha power is hard to handle in the best of circumstances.  Most days Derek’s still not confident he’s got it all figured out and he’s a born werewolf, much less Stiles who was unwillingly turned only months ago in unimaginable circumstances.  Before this, the pack could keep him in check, now Derek’s the only one who can really rival Stiles.  It’s too risky to have a mentally unstable Alpha around; it takes a lot of presence of mind to manage the power and not get intoxicated by it.  It’s not a struggle he wants Stiles to add to the countless others he already faces.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies.  “Yeah, guess I could.”

Derek tries not to be worried at the look of reluctance in Stiles’ expression, but he can’t help the twinge of apprehension that spreads through him at the sight.

 

***********************************************************************

 

_I could fall back._

_Give this up, be a beta again, be safer to be around,  easier to control_

The alpha instincts now ingrained in him stir in protest.

_Or I could keep it._

_Keep the power humming through my veins that strangles off most of the fear.  Keep the knowledge that no rival Alpha could ever again keep me down so easily.  Keep the assurance that I don’t need to please a pack or an Alpha—I can always just make my own._

He can’t quite stop a grin at the prospect of so many weaknesses dying down, overshadowed by strength and command.

_Never have to feel weak again. Never need Derek or the others to protect me.  Powerful. Not weak. Not a burden. Never again._

“Stiles?” Derek says quietly, bringing Stiles back into the moment.

His eyes meet Derek’s and the lust for power abates just slightly.

“You—you earned the rank,” Derek allows.  “I can’t—we can’t _make_ you give it up, but you—I don’t know if—Stiles, just please think about it?”

A request, not a demand. A request underlain with fear.

_Fear because you know I could challenge you.  I could challenge you and take them and—_

_No. No, it’s Derek. Derek doesn’t want to fight me. Derek helps. Derek protects. Derek cares._

_Then why fear?_

“ _Please_ ,” he placates again. “I know—I _know_ how great it is to feel powerful when you’ve felt helpless. I know how badly you want to feel in control of your life and safe and I—I can’t lie to you and say _I_ could give that feeling up, but Stiles, I don’t—don’t know if this would help you or just make it worse but I _do_ know this isn’t the only option for you to get rid of that fear.  Even if you’re just a beta, we’ll help you get rid of the fear. Whatever it takes.  It’s already been getting better right? With us?

And now the alpha pack’s dead because you—you as a beta—were _smart_ enough to act on a plan.  You don’t need the Alpha rank to protect yourself.  You could put up a fight with the best of them even back when you were human because you’re _you._ Underneath the rest of the instinctual bullshit, it’s _you._ You get that? _That’s_ what the difference is. _That’s_ what makes you so hard to beat—to break.  You’re _you._   _That’s_ why you always manage to get through the shit that gets thrown at you.

I can’t make you fall back to beta; I can’t promise it’ll be easier if you do, but I just want you to see you don’t _need_ to stay an Alpha to stay on top of things, okay? You see that? Being _you_ is enough; it’s the part that matters, and I don’t want you to lose yourself in the Alpha.  Understand?”

_Understand?_

_Understand what? You don’t want me to lose myself, but something else. You’re scared of something else._

_I don’t want you to lose yourself in the Alpha,_ Derek said

_You’re scared I’ll lose myself in the Alpha?_

The moment it clicks, Stiles knows what his decision will be.

_Peter lost himself in the Alpha._

_I don’t want you to be Peter._

Words Derek would never say to him. A comparison Derek would never make out loud.  But a fear still clearly present.

_Underneath the rest of the instinctual bullshit, it’s you. You get that? That’s what the difference is. That’s what makes you so hard to beat—to break.  You’re you.  That’s why you always manage to get through the shit that gets thrown at you._

Derek’s voicing what Stiles has claimed to want since he came back from the Alpha Pack: to just be himself.

_Me. The sarcastic human who never fucking wanted any of this anyway. Power of the Alpha isn’t closer to me; it’s closer to them._

Not that alphas are inherently evil; Derek’s good. Plenty of others probably are. But it’s not a power Stiles ever wanted. As weak as he felt sometimes, he was okay with staying pale skin and fragile bone.  He didn’t need or want to be a werewolf, much less an Alpha.  The craving to stay an Alpha is driven by fear from _them,_ not a desire from _himself._

“How do I fall back?”

The terrified wretch in the back of his mind screams objections at the question, urging desperately for him to hold on to the power that will keep him safe, and he’s more certain than ever this is the right choice.  

_I don’t need the power to be safe or happy.  I don’t need it for anything.  I have the pack.  I have Derek and Isaac and Dad and Scott and Lydia and Jackson—hell Deaton and the Argents and Morrell, too._

_And I’ve got me._

“You’re sure?” Derek asks.

_No. Yes, Maybe. I don’t know._

_Yes, I do_

_I know._

_I know because Derek’s right and I’m still me under all the bullshit instincts and everything else.  I’m still me._

_And I’m not the guy who wants to be an Alpha. Not really._

The moment he settles on that thought he can feel the power begin to wane.

 

***************************************************************

 

Stiles’ eyes flare and the red slowly melts back to an icy blue.  So many different levels of relief wash over Derek that he almost feels guilty, except Stiles is smiling, and before Derek thinks about it he’s kissing that smile for all he’s worth, grateful yet again to have Stiles back. 

“God, you are so much fucking stronger than you think you are,” Derek breathes, pulling away from the kiss and resting his forehead against Stiles’. 

_Do you realize that? Do you realize how few people—much less people with scars in their minds like you’ve got to get past—could be strong enough to give up that power? You’re stronger than you know. Stronger than me. Why can’t  you ever see it?_

“Dude, no I’m not. I just—”

“Yes, you are,” Derek interrupts earnestly, “and I’m gonna spend every goddamn day for the rest of my life reminding you that until you fucking believe me.”

The grin that spreads across Stiles face at the words is dazzling, but there’s a tease coming; Derek knows the look all too well.

“Did you just propose to me?”

“Fuck off.”

“You did. You totally just Derek-Hale-Style proposed.”

 “Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, you did. Isaac will totally back up my logic and—”

Stiles sentence ends abruptly at the thought of Isaac, and his eyes shift past Derek to the warehouse door.  Derek turns to look too, and, as if on cue, Scott bursts out into the alley.  Derek’s chest seizes in fear for one horrible moment before he registers that Scott’s smiling.

“He’s healing!” Scott shouts happily. “Visible werewolf legit healing!”

 

*********************************************************************

 

Isaac’s eyes flutter open, and he realizes he’s staring up at the familiar ceiling of Stiles’ bedroom.

_Somebody seriously oversold the whole heaven deal.  What happened to silver-lined, golden mansions and shit?_

“Isaac?” Derek’s voice asks. “Hey, Isaac, can you hear me?”

He turns his head slowly to see Derek’s sitting in a chair by the bed, both his hands around Isaac’s right, black tendrils coursing his arm as he leeches pain.

 “Derek,” he says with a smile. “You’re okay.”

_You’re not bleeding or beaten or scared out of your mind. You’re okay. We’re okay._

“You’re awake,” Derek replies, and God that giddy look on his face is absolutely adorable.  “How d’you feel? What hurts? We got medicine from Deaton but we can get someone else in here to help take more of the—”

“Where’s Stiles?”

Derek’s face falls just slightly at the question, and Isaac’s heart nearly stops.

“He’s—uh—he’s downstairs.”

_Why is he downstairs? Why isn’t he here? Why do you look sad? What’s wrong with him? What happened?!_

The last thing Isaac remembers is Stiles shifting and sprinting after an Alpha, and the crushing terror of all the horrible ways that fight could have ended put ice in Isaac’s veins. 

_What happened? Is he hurt? Oh God please don’t let it be bad._

“Isaac, Isaac, hey, look at me; breathe, okay? Just breathe,” Derek soothes, but the heartbroken look on his face does nothing to calm Isaac. 

“He’s—He’s not—” but Isaac can’t even finish the question because he’s to petrified of the answer.

“He’s not going to hurt you, okay?” Derek promises sadly. “You’re safe now.  He just—he had to—he had to make them think he was back to the conditioning. He didn’t—didn’t _want_ to hurt you; you know that right? You understand that?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Derek,” Isaac replies, closing his eyes as relief rushes through him.  “I thought he was fucking hurt or dying or—God, I don’t know—but I’m not fucking _scared_ of him. I remember enough to know he saved our asses.”

“Oh thank God,” Derek answers almost laughing in relief as the worry leaves his face. “We weren’t sure how much after he—we didn’t know how much you were lucid enough for, and we—”

“So can I see him? I wanna see him.”

_I need to see he’s okay. See again that they didn’t break him back to what he was. Please let him be okay._

“Yeah, of course you can see him,” Derek answers. “Stiles?” he says louder. “Come on, I know you’re listening. Come up.”

 Isaac hears the slow tread of Stiles’ feet up the stairs.  The door opens slowly and as Stiles walks in Isaac feels the panic rise again.  Stiles’ head’s down, eyes on the floor, and he barely enters the room before he stops short, waiting, the very image of docility.

_Shit, did they break you back? Did you revert to conditioning once the fight was over? What happened?_

 “Stiles?”

His head raises slightly, and he tries to smile. 

“Hey, Isaac.”

“Dude, stop it; you’re scaring me. Look at me.”

Stiles is already taking a step back at the phrase “scaring me” but he stops and looks up when Isaac asks it.

“Isaac, I’m so sorry I—” his voice chokes on tears and Isaac’s heart is going to shatter into a million fucking pieces any second now “I didn’t—I didn’t know what else to do, and I—God, Isaac, I—”

“Stop it,” Isaac commands, voice cracking along with Stiles. “I know exactly what you did, and why. You saved our lives, you moron. Don’t apologize to me.”

“I—I—”

 “Now move your dumb ass over here and leach pain from the other side,” he requests, knowing Stiles won’t deny it.

 “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Derek’s watching it all worriedly, unsure how best to interject.  Stiles grabs Isaac’s hand, and Isaac uses the strength he can muster to pull Stiles in closer, straining to sit up enough to bring his lips to Stiles’ though his still-aching body protests.  

“Isaac,” Stiles says, breaking away.

 It’s the start of another apology, and Isaac cuts it off with, “Nothing to be sorry for. No more apologies allowed. Got it?”

 “And speaking of things that aren’t allowed,” Derek says, hand on Isaac’s shoulder to both steady him and push him back down on the bed, “No strenuous activity for another couple days. Doctor’s orders.”         

“ _Kissing_ is not ‘strenuous activity.’ I’m fine to—”

“You’re worse than Stiles,” Derek teases.

“ _Hey_ ,” Stiles protests; it’s not back to his usual self, but it’s a step away from the apologies.

_Good going, Derek._

“You need to rest,” Derek insists.

Isaac wants to protest, but he honest-to-God feels like shit, and sleep does sound pretty damn good.

“You two going to stay?”

“If you want us to.”

“Isaac sandwich,” he orders.  “Go.”

It gets a huff of laughter out of Stiles, and he smiles at the sound. 

_I know you’re going to blame yourself, but don’t. Please don’t. I’m okay. We’re all okay.  It’s a hell of a lot more than I thought was possible when I woke up in that warehouse._

They settle in on either side of him, and he’s asleep again in minutes.

 

*********************************************************************

 

             

Stiles doesn’t sleep very well—he tries for a long time not to sleep, worrying a nightmare will cause him to hurt Isaac—but when he can’t hold off any longer, he at least doesn’t have the usual nightmares. 

Underneath the guilt of hurting Isaac,  underneath all the other horrible things he’s done and that’ve been done to him and just all of the other _bullshit_ , there’s a peace settling in the back of his mind, It’s not overwhelming; it’s not absolving; but it’s there.

Because maybe there is a damn long road ahead; maybe he’s never going to forget what happened; maybe Isaac and Derek and everyone else are still going to have to deal with the stress of helping him move past it; maybe he’s going to tackle the stress of helping Isaac and Derek move past shit too.

Regardless of all that, at the end of the day, those bastards aren’t going to ever hurt anyone ever again.

_You are so much fucking stronger than you think you are._

Stiles still isn’t sure he believes the words, but he’s starting to hope they’re true.

Of course, it also doesn’t hurt the moving-past-it process that he’s like 99% sure he remembers sinking fangs into Alec’s dick, and there’s just so much justice in that memory he doesn’t even care if he dreamed it up.

 

*****************************************************************

 

Derek wakes as Isaac stirs.

“Isaac? What’s wrong? Are you—”

“Chill, dude,” Isaac replies exasperatedly.  “I just have to pee.”

“Do you need—”

 “Jesus Christ, Derek, I can pee by myself.”

Isaac asserts his independence as he tries to stand, and Derek’s waiting when his legs won’t support him.  Derek catches him as gently as he can, resisting the urge to just scoop him up and carry him.

“Okay, so maybe a little help _getting_ to the bathroom,” Isaac acquiesces, “but I can still totally pee by myself.”

“Got it,” Derek agrees with a smirk.

“Fuck you.”

 “No strenuous activity, remember?” Stiles quips, voice muffled because his face is still smashed into his pillow.  “You’ll have to wait a few more days.”

“Oh my God, Stiles,” Isaac mutters.  “You’re ridiculous.”

 “Incorrigible,” Stiles corrects.  “Get it right.”

Derek’s grinning like an absolute idiot now because this is so fucking normal and _them_ and they’re all three here and alive.

_How do I even deserve to keep having this? But please God don’t ever take it away._

After a trip to the bathroom that’s only slightly mortifying for everyone involved, Isaac falls back onto the bed,  awake for the moment though clearly not interested in actually sitting up or moving much at all in the near future.  He just takes Derek’s hand as Derek settles in beside him and reaches with his other for Stiles’.  

“So how long was I out?” Isaac wonders.

“Almost three days.”

“Three _days?_ ”

_Maybe the three fucking longest days of my life._

“You were pretty messed up, Isaac,” Stiles says quietly.  “Deaton wasn’t sure if—”

“Miss anything interesting?” Isaac asks, before the tone can get too serious.

“Derek proposed,” Stiles replies.

 “I did _not_ fucking propose, Stiles.”

_Not exactly._

“Close enough.”

“Whatever.”

“Okay, I’m going to need a story here,” Isaac insists.

“Tell him what you said,” Stiles urges.

 “It wasn’t a fucking—”

 “Tell him!”

Derek groans in annoyance. 

“All I fucking said was—was something about telling him he’s stronger than he thinks,” Derek answers, though he knows damn well it’s not all he said.

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles whines, and goddamn that fucking pouty face of his.

“Stiles, it’s not—it wasn’t—” He sighs in resignation. “I said—I said he was stronger than he thinks he is, and that I’d spend every day the rest of my life telling him that until he believed it,” he feels the flush of embarrassment as he barrels on with, “and it was fucking cheesy and corny and sappy and go ahead, you make fun of me too, but it was a really fucked up day and he needed to—”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Stiles interrupts. 

_Like hell you’re not._

“I mean I—I was teasing but I just meant—like how we always give each other shit but not—not like _making fun._ I know you were being serious.”

_That’s what makes it embarrassing, Stiles. I was being sappy and serious and spouting shit out of a chick flick at you and—_

“Hey, Derek, come on, don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything. It wasn’t even a proposal. I just—”

“Well, if you’re not proposing, then I am,” Isaac interjects.

 “What?” Stiles asks, flailing into a sitting position.  “Derek, I told you about doubling up his pain meds when—”

“Stop it, Stiles; don’t joke. I’m serious; you know Derek was being serious too so—”

“Wait, no, dude, we’re like—no—we’re—we can’t _seriously_ talk about—”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because—because—”

 “Because you two aren’t even eighteen,” Derek supplies.  “We’ve only been whatever the hell we are for a few weeks. We—”

“We almost _died_ ,” Isaac cuts in harshly.  “Three days ago we almost died, all of us.   I damn sure thought I was dying. I came about as fucking close as it gets without actually biting the dust, didn’t I?”

_Deaton said five minutes give or take and you’d’ve been beyond saving._

Derek can’t say that out loud though; it’s to bone-chilling to think about, so he just nods.

“And I said I fucking loved you—both of you—and I meant it.”

“Isaac—” Derek starts, trying desperately not to hear the replay of the gurgling, desperate confession that’s haunted his memories for days.

 “And you said it back,” Isaac reminds him, “and Stiles fucking says it in his sleep and maybe you guys don’t mean it like that maybe you don’t mean it as rest-of-your-life-commitment kind of stuff, but I fucking _do_ mean it like that because I was fucking dying and all I cared about was that I was going to miss out on getting to the better part of life with you two idiots so if you’re not fucking proposing then I am because I swear to God I would start right now and live the rest of my life with you two and never regret that decision for a minute.” 

There are tears on his cheeks now, and he wipes at them hurriedly; he shouldn’t bother being embarrassed because Derek’s already equally wrecked.

_Goddammit Isaac you can’t just—you can’t just say shit like—goddammit._

 

*******************************************************************

 

 Isaac should maybe be at least slightly embarrassed about that unstoppable flood of I-almost-died-and-I-love-you emotions he just gushed out, but he doesn’t.

Not even a little bit.

He just hopes to God that this one time Derek won’t balk and Stiles won’t crack a joke and Isaac’s moment of insane honesty won’t fuck everything up.

The reaction to his confession comes in a blessedly hilarious head-butt as Derek and Stiles move to kiss him at the same time.  There’s an audible thud as their heads crash together and they part muttering curses, shattering the sincerity of Isaac’s confession in the most perfect way possible.  He’s laughing hysterically despite the protests of his aching muscles, and it’s not long before they’re laughing with him, laughing until they can barely even breathe and finally Isaac pulls in enough air to say, “So that was a yes?”

“Nope,” Stiles replies with a grin, “We just want you for your body.”

“Fuck off,” Derek tells him, using one palm to keep Stiles firmly on his side of the bed as he ducks in for a kiss, slow and sweet and careful.

“Definitely a yes,” Isaac declares when Derek breaks away.

“Hey, what happened to the strenuous activity rule?” Stiles whines.

“You got your kiss; I got mine,” Derek replies.  “No favorites; all equal.  It’s only fair that—”

Stiles shuts down Derek’s declaration of logic with a kiss of his own. 

“There,” he declares, “ _now_ all equal.”

“And now instituting a no-foreplay-until-Isaac’s-well-enough-to-follow-through rule,” Isaac adds, cursing the ever-present ache extending through his entire body more than ever.

“Buzz kill,” Stiles says petulantly. 

“We’ve got time,” Isaac replies.  “I just called dibbs on the rest of your life.”

He can’t deny the thrill that runs through him at the prospect: Derek and Stiles his. Permanently. No favorites; all equal.  All together.  All three.

“We’ve got time,” Derek agrees with a smile.

“But are you like _sure_ you don’t have a voyeurism kink or something we could work in as a loop-hole to that rule just in case it takes longer than you expect to be back to full—”

“Stiles!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the motherload of rambling end notes? 'Cause here we go:
> 
> First off, I want to say thank you for all of you who've been on this insane ride with me, whether you were here from day one or you find it long after it's finished, just the fact that anyone reads and enjoys my writing still amazes me and keeps me writing. This started as a 750-word hook with a 20k draft, and I broke 125k yesterday and now it's a series because I have enjoyed writing these guys so much i just can't bring myself to quit (which is an addiction I should probably work on, especially since I couldn't focus on anything today besides this last chapter that needed editing and ended up thoroughly neglecting work and basically everything except the teen wolf episode tonight to get it finished)
> 
> Secondly, I hope you'll indulge me the cheese and the fluff there at the end; Sorry I'm not sorry. I'm not saying they're off to the chapel in wherever the hell you can get threesome werewolf underage married the next day. I'm not saying there aren't many angst-filled days and conversations after all this goes down, but after all I've dragged them through the past 26 chapters, I had to send our boys out with some fluff. (plus, I promised you guys happiness, and I'm not quite cruel enough to lie through my teeth about that--I'm especially talking you you ThursdaysChild who I threatened mercilessly, though there is in fact an angsty alternate ending that may one day see the light of day)
> 
> Thirdly, I'll attempt to explain how this whole series thing is going to work. Part 1 is obviously "Desolate". The next thing I'll post is the epilogue to this story, a flash-forward bit called "Delivered". Once that's done, I'm coming back to fill in the gaps between Desolate and Delivered for those who don't want to skip the angsty ride and be done :P 
> 
> Thank you all so very much again! I really, truly hope you've enjoyed the ride and where we ended up and where we head next. Y'ALL FUCKING ROCK! 
> 
> I should also take this chance to dedicate this to all the spouses I've accrued while writing it. I don't want to end up in the metaphorical dog house--or couch--or anywhere that's not cuddling in bed with you really--by neglecting to assert my love for both you AND all the regular commenters who made posting this work so insanely enjoyable!! 
> 
> And with that I bid you farewell, until we meet again for Delivered and Determined
> 
> *exit: stage left, fist pumping into the air as "Don't You (Forget About Me)" blares in the background*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading! 
> 
> The response I got from that initial post was terrifyingly wonderful, so I sincerely hope you enjoyed it as much as y'all hoped!!!!!
> 
> UPDATE: I am TOTALLY FLABBERGASTED to hear that someone nominated Desolate for a fan work contest. 
> 
> UPDATE to the update: DESOLATE WON!!! Y'all're awesome!   
> You should check out the site that runs the contests because they'll point you to some truly awesome fic, art, and vids. If you're like to, you can [Find the Site Here](https://sites.google.com/site/teenwolffwcontest)
> 
> Also, if you're ever in the neighborhood and care to chat, I'm over on tumblr as packdontendwithblood or email at arebutvagueshadows@gmail.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

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  * [Desolate [FANART/GIFSET] Shifted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297993) by [Loup_Aigre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loup_Aigre/pseuds/Loup_Aigre)
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